


Poisoned Minds

by asparagusmama



Series: Seasons - AU season 5 [4]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Autistic Character, Case Fic, Crime Plot, Dangerous, Drug Use, Hathaway drives very fast indeed, Hobson being awesome, Innocent being awesome, Innocent does some real policing, M/M, Oxford Brookes University, Really undercover, UNIT, Undercover as chavs, brief mentions of being raped and abused as a child but so minor I've not used the tag, deep undercover, drug-taking of canon character, investigating uncles, mostly Town not Gown, no back-up, not the Oxford the tourist board wants you to see, sleuthing nuns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 126,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparagusmama/pseuds/asparagusmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lewis comes back from leave when he and James Hathaway are almost immediately called to a body. There he meets the wrath of Hobson, as for her this is her 21st victim and not the first, as Innocent supposes...</p>
<p>Who is cutting Oxford's underworld of heroin with an unknown substance? And for what reason? Can Lewis and Hathaway penetrate the murky, sad, desperate world of drug addiction and hopelessness to find what and who is killing off Oxford's addicts, including the Balliol student, son of an US Congressman?</p>
<p>Meanwhile, will Robbie and James' new relationship survive their living so closely and intimately in so squalid a room while undercover?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is another in the AU Season 5  
> These stories began as stories made up verbally for my daughter, who has high functioning autism, doesn’t sleep and is obsessed with Lewis. It takes 2-3 Lewis DVDs a night to keep her still and get her to sleep, so on holiday these stories were made up and told by me at night, totally exhausted, changing each time. Last June 2010, unsupported and not coping very well, I stormed out of the house in my wheelchair to the ring road, ready to wheel myself under a truck. Instead, I came home and began this first of the four. I’ve not written fanfic since the 1990s,where I’ve had Star Trek TOS and DS9 and Dr. Who on the net and in zines, under various names. Please be kind to me. Writing these stories down is my only time to myself, as she doesn’t sleep and I’ve been forced to home educate.  
> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV. 
> 
> Kate Lethbridge-Stewart belongs to the BBC and the whole of the Doctor who franchise, and possibly originally to Marc Platt and Reeltime (Downtown) and maybe even Gary Russell and Virgin (The Scales of Injustice)? 
> 
> The Tower of London belongs to HM the Queen. Or it should!
> 
> Osgood and UNIT belong to the BBC.
> 
> Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....
> 
> Frank emotional details of dealing with being abused as a child. My daughter and I are, quite frankly, p-ed off at a sideways hint in a subplot at Hathaway’s childhood, which is then dropped when the writers lose interest, although Fox’s acting is fantastic.
> 
> I’ve not tagged it Non Con because the story deals with the long term emotional cost to being a victim of a crime.

Laura Hobson was enjoying a long lie in on a Sunday morning, curled up under her duvet, even though outside the day was growing hotter by the second. Enjoying may have been quite the wrong word as her work phone awaked her from her deathly slumber. She groaned and reached out an arm for the phone, moaning as she accidentally knocked back the quilt and the bright August morning light poured directly into her probably still drunken brain via her gummed up eye-sockets. Ouch, she thought as she wailed a choice swear word. Too many tequila slammers.

“Hobson,” she snapped. She sat up abruptly. “Give me half an hour.”

Laura stumbled out of bed and let out a cry of disgust at her own reflection. Black satin top twisted up to show her bra, make-up smudged over her face, no trousers or knickers... Really! She was far, far, too old for this sort of thing. Did she think she was still a student? She was most certainly too old for this kind of late night partying and drinking. Especially the drinking. And especially, especially, when she was on call. She turned back to her bed and looked at it worriedly just in case. Fortunately, no strange person lay sleeping there, nor was there any sign there had been at any stage that night, or rather that morning, as she hadn’t got to bed since... what was it? Four o’clock, something near to that.

Although thinking about it she did remember meeting a rather cute nurse at Rosa and Jane’s barbeque. A redhead. So perhaps she shouldn’t be so relieved?

No, she was most certainly far too old for such shenanigans.

Ten minutes later, after a brief and very cold shower, she was out of her house, dressed in a green sundress and very dark sunglasses, on her way to Wood Farm. 

Another ten minutes on that, white suit over her dress, she stood at the bottom of a the stairwell of a nineteen seventies block of council flats having a stern conversation with an older, grey haired, uniformed police constable.

“Why is it only me here, Bob? Where is CID?”

“It’s my patch, doctor. I knew him. Got ASBOs as long as your arm. Been in trouble since he was a kid.”

“What is he now then?” demanded Hobson, although the answer was obvious: dead. But he had been still just a child, yet to turn sixteen years of age. He lay at an awkward angle under the stairs, dressed in dirty grey tracksuit bottoms and an even dirtier tee shirt that might have had The Avengers movie logo on it once, but it was so stained and faded with washing it was hard to tell. Beside him lay tin foil, used matches and white powder scattered around, looking as inncoent as spilled flour but far from such a cosy image. She doubted this boy ever baked cakes with mummy. All around them, in the air, lay the heavy, unmistakable smell of burnt heroin and unwashed human flesh, coupled with the dreadful smell of sudden, unattended, death, as the child had evacuated both bowel and bladder at the point of death. Laura forced herself to squat down again by his side, fighting the bile rising in her throat. She was not squeamish. She was never squeamish, not even hung over on an empty stomach after slightly more than four hours sleep. No, she told herself, she was disgusted. 

“He’s the nineteenth victim I’ve seen like this,” she said angrily, touching the yellow foamed crusting that had formed about the boy’s mouth with her gloved finger.

The officer shrugged. “Smackhead. Overdose. Dealer cut it with crap to increase the profit, init? It happens, don’t it? Sad, but why bother CID on a Sunday. Drug squad will get a report e-mailed in the morning, I suppose.”

“Did you even try to get them out Bob?” Hobson demanded, standing up.

Bob shrugged. “Quoting, in’t I? Is it the smack, then, is it?”

“I’ll know more after the PM, but yes, it was something he took but I doubt it was the heroin that did this. It’s something he didn’t know about. I would hazard a guess his heart just stopped, following his vomiting up this yellow gunk. See his eyeballs, they’re yellow too. I’ve seen this before Bob, and I just don’t know what causes it. Not flour or baking powder or icing sugar, nor any cleaning product, not even Anthrax. I just don’t know what the heroin is cut with, but it’s killing people. It’s murder, Bob, and you can try telling that to CID for me. And as he’s the nineteenth I’ve seen you can also try telling Drugs to get a warning out through the health agencies, they won’t listen to me, I don’t have the right authority. God knows, I’ve been putting in my reports over the past two weeks!”

“Same as that girl, then? Over by the shops, ten days ago? Thought she were just an overdose.”

“I’d not seen the pattern then, not joined the dots. But yes. She was the same. And seventeen others. Okay, I’m done here. He can keep, poor sausage. PM tomorrow morning. See you Bob.” She grabbed her bags and stamped out of the dingy, cool, smelly, lobby into the bright, hot, sunshine. Breakfast, she thought.

*

Meanwhile, two graduate students were meeting for breakfast at the Magic Cafe on Magdalen Road, off the Cowley and Iffley Roads, deep in East Oxford student territory. He was very white, despite the summer sun, even though his unbrushed, sticking-up, greasy, hair was very dark. Despite of the heat he wore a holey, hand-knitted V-necked jumper with the sleeves pulled over his hands. He had poked holes in the cuffs for his thumbs to stick through. Under this he wore very grubby black jeans and even grubbier white trainers.

His companion, however, was a complete contrast to his grungy, unkempt look. She skipped into the cafe and went to hug and air kiss him, but stopped, holding herself back at the last minute, as if remembering he didn’t like to be touched. She had long, ironed smooth, white-blonde hair, falling down her back to her waist, hanging over her green and pink flowered maxi sundress, over which she wore a thick, beige cardigan, accompanied by a crocheted wool beige crinkle scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, despite the heat. On her feet, cheap, plastic purple flip-flops. Her smudged, thickly applied, black eyeliner and mascara, probably, like Hobson’s, left from the night before, completed the look. She was equally pale.

*

Not very far away at all from the Magic Cafe, on the Iffley Road, Lewis had just parked his car. He was dressed in his old, faded green polo shirt and a pair of jeans. He grabbed a small, purple plastic bag with an expensive logo stamped on it, along with a huge bunch of white lilies, from the passenger seat and locked the car, before checking his hair and teeth in his reflection in the wing mirror. He bounced along the few hundred yards from where he had parked the car to a house, practically skipping up the steps to the front door. As he pressed the bell for the basement flat he heard the bells of the Friary a little way down the road, and then the church a little way opposite began its tuneful call to prayer. 

Lewis suddenly doubted himself. Perhaps he should have phoned after all to say he was back and coming over; James might be at Mass. Lewis pressed the buzzer to James’ flat.

The surprise was worth it, as when the door opened Lewis was rewarded both by the delicious sight of his sergeant in only pale blue check cotton pyjama trousers and nothing else. The lad’s hair was on end and he had sleep-crusted, squinting eyes that peered, confused for a moment, before he opened the door, rewarding Lewis with the widest of genuine happy smiles.

“Sir!”

“It’s Robbie,” said Robbie emphatically, shoving the huge bunch of lilies into James’ arms.

“Oh!” James cradled the flowers and sniffed them. He acted as if no one had ever given him flowers. Perhaps they hadn’t? A faint blush was creeping across his cheeks as he said, “Um. Thank you Sir.”

“Robbie.”

“Then, thank you Robbie. When did you get back?” James asked, leading the way into his flat. The remains of breakfast – coffee, orange juice, pain au chocolat, all littered the coffee table and music was playing in the background; something restful and classical that Lewis couldn’t identify. Naturally, a book lay open on the sofa. James himself moved it to the coffee table so Lewis could sit down.

“Last night, late,” answered Lewis. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

“You have. I’ll... I’ll just put these in water. Coffee Sir? I mean Robbie. It’s fresh. I’ll get you a mug.”

“Please,” Lewis answered, sitting down in the place the book had been. He bounced a couple of little bounces as he did so, almost like someone much younger and happier. “Did you miss me then?” he teased, reaching out and grabbing James by the wrist, pulling him on to the sofa. James wriggled quickly out of his grasp and made himself busy with the flowers at his breakfast bar.

Robbie got up and followed him, coming up behind him to encircle his waist from behind and press up to the tall, skinny, tense form. He momentarily enjoyed the feel of bare flesh under his arms; he knew it couldn’t last. He even kissed the back of James neck before,

“Sir!”

“I missed you,” Lewis said, pulling James’ hands away from the flowers, now safely in water, and gently turning him in his arms before looking up to kiss him, moving one hand to James’ neck, the other to the small of his back. James remained tense for a few seconds before he yielded to the kiss, suddenly kissing back with equal, ferocious, passion, running fingers through Robbie’s hair. Robbie took a chance and slid fingers through the loose waistband of the pyjamas and gently caressed James’ backside. James shuddered, but surprisingly, did not object immediately. It was almost two minutes before he did. He broke the kiss to whisper,

“Please. Not yet.”

“Okay pet. I’ll have that coffee then.” He sat back down on the sofa and poured himself a coffee, using the mug James had been using, and turned the conversation to other topics. He talked of Lyn, her relationship break-up, of how he really didn’t like the sound of this slick, charming financial advisor, how he had liked Tim. He did not mention the pregnancy, which would take careful handling. He knew James was very insecure and at times appeared jealous of his easy relationship he had with his daughter. Who knew how threatened he might feel by a future grandchild? Plus, Robbie felt a little insecure himself. Bad enough being in love with a lad old enough to be your son, but to be a grandfather with a toy-boy...? Didn’t look too good, did it?

He also didn’t tell James that he had told Lyn all about their relationship, and James’ past. He debated with himself whether he should, but decided it might frighten the lad. He thought he was probably sounding as boring as Morse found him, as instead, to cover James’ awkward silence, he rambled on about meeting up with his younger brother Pete, who also lived in Manchester, but hardly had anything to do with Lyn, and his ex sister-in-law Janine and his nieces and nephews, and all he and Lyn had got up to – lots of shopping, but as that it had been for things for the baby, he held back on that. He hated secrets, so to make up he confessed to going first to Northumbria for the weekend and about his strange niece Willow by Pete’s first relationship, and the hippie-dippy, airy-fairy, retreat she ran up there in the countryside,

“But she makes a tidy profit, she and her partner are right canny when it comes to it, for all their weird beliefs.” That he took part in some airy-fairy counselling and healing, again, he did not mention.

All the while he kept up his near monologue he polished off the rest of the pain au chocolat and then ate huge quantities of toast and jam that James produced. James sat at the edge of the sofa, folding up and hugging his long legs, putting far more personal space between them that he ever did before they were together, commenting and answering in occasional monosyllabic answers, only coming alive to defend New Age retreats and faith generally, comparing such place to Walsingham or Lindesfarn. Other than that, he was silent and almost trying to disappear into the sofa, pressing his back in and hugging himself tightly. Robbie thought that he looked tired, vulnerable, and maybe a bit peaky. He felt a stab of guilt about leaving him for so long, but then his Lyn needed him too! He felt torn, and worried, and thought of asking James how he had been, how he was coping. But, then, they didn’t do that, and he’d best not startle the lad.

“Right then pet,” he said decisively, unwittingly sounding far more like a boss than a date, “I’m here to take you out for the day. It’s gorgeous out there. I’d thought I’d take you punting. No doubt it’s something you and your mates did over in Cambridge, but I’ve never done it and always fancied it. It’s something Val and me always planned to do but then the kids – and work – and Morse! – somehow got in the way. We could pick up a picnic from somewhere. Couldn’t we?” he sounded less like James’ boss now, almost pleading as he looked at that blank, unreadable mask that was James at times. “How does that sound?”

James stared blankly a few seconds and then smiled. It was like the sun coming out for Robbie. “It’s sounds good,” he said. “Although I suspect I’ll be the one with the punt,” he added mildly. Robbie pulled a face at him. James hurriedly asked, “I thought you were on leave until tomorrow?”

“I am, you soft lad. I came back early to spend a day with you. Are you gonna get dressed or what?”

“Er. Yeah.”

“Oh no! Wait! First, presents. I got you presents!”

“From Manchester? Or Newcastle? The mind boggles.”

“Now now, none of your southern snobbery, it’ll not work, not that I know that you’re nowt but an inbred yokel boy.”

James eyebrows rose in surprise and offence, “I am not...!” he began softly.

“We all have our prejudices, eh?” Lewis interrupted him with a smile. “Manchester’s a great city. You’ll see. Next time, love, you’ll come with me.”

“But why?”

Robbie rolled his eyes. “Because we are together. A couple.”

“But we’ve not...”

“Doesn’t matter love. It doesn’t matter.” He picked up James’ hand and squeezed. “It’s this, this feeling, that matters. When you’re ready, already said. Here.” He let go of James’ hand and presented the purple bag. “Found this in a flea market and thought of you.”

It was an antique gold crucifix, over a hundred years old, that James gingerly unwrapped from the purple tissue paper than he had pulled from the bag. He looked at it, puzzled, but appreciative. Lewis mocked his faith, didn’t understand it. Besides, flowers were one thing, but jewellery, it symbolised too much of what he had longed for, dreamed of... it was terrifying. But he smiled a tight smile at Lewis and said softly,

“Thank you Sir.”

Robbie smiled, and didn’t even bother to correct him. He just got up, and taking the chain from James’ hands, came to stand behind him and fastened the chain around James’ neck, caressing it with his fingers as he did so.

“Go get dressed,” he instructed.

*

Hobson was in a foul mood. A second body, rudely interrupting her breakfast at Cowley Tescos, the nearest place she could find open on a Sunday morning near to Wood Farm that wasn’t McDonald’s, that day, her second apparent accidental heroin overdose of the day. It wasn’t far from where she was at all, fortunately. Blackbird Leys. At least, she mused, they would not know she was around the corner and she could justify finishing her egg and mushroom bap and coffee before she attended.

When she got there she found herself parking in a cul de sac of fifties semi detached council houses. This one was a small, two up two down arrangement. The body had been a nineteen-year-old girl who lived with her Mum and little brother and her own four year old son. The mum, seemingly from the state of play, slept in the lounge. She also, the poor woman, had found the body of her daughter that morning and was obviously in shock.

“She was supposed to be clean,” the mother, younger than Hobson but worn down by poverty, stress, and smoking so looked so much older, kept repeating. The two younger children were in the kitchen with a very young Community Police Support Officer. Really, some of these CPSOs looked twelve!

The body had an ex-boyfriend who was also a user, and equally young, had been round last night to visit his son and had stayed on past the boy’s bedtime, the young uniformed officer told her. He didn’t look that much older than the CPSO.

This was her twentieth victim in two weeks with this same, unidentifiable, unknown, substance. But presumably the girl, this time an injector, had shared the drug with her ex. If so, why was he not dead too? Unless he was, of course, somewhere unfound? And if it had affected him, was it at a different rate, or he could have run out on a death in a panic, he wouldn’t be the first in these twenty cases. Or did he leave and then she died, and he did too? Or survived? If he did, he wouldn’t be a first, there were already several times that Hobson had had a body and a survivor from those using the same dose and batch of heroin, which didn’t fit a profile of anything else that the drug had been cut with out of an attempt to drive up profit or from malicious intent. Normally, if a drug was lethal, it was lethal. Hobson still couldn’t identify what it was being cut with, let alone how exactly it was killing some and not others. As for intent, she had no idea whether greed, cruelty, revenge, or some thing other was driving those who cut the heroin. Motive shouldn’t really be her area, but she was so sick of being fobbed off by the Drug Squad and CID, that she wanted to know, even if she had to investigate for herself. This was why she had begun to interrogate the officers and the body’s family for any clues, any connections. So far, nothing. She was as in the dark as she was regarding the toxicology of this substance that was killing with yellow bile.

Yellow bile! Listen to her thoughts! She sounded as primitive as a doctor 3000 years ago!

She felt so powerless, as yet again CID left uniform to mop up the tragic ‘accidental death’ of a dispossessed, lower class user, someone on the margins and outskirts of city and society. Like the old fifties Cutteslowe Wall, the ring road cut these people out of the city in the topical imagination of the powers that be!

Shaking with rage once she had done all that was necessary and logged the body for her second PM tomorrow, Hobson returned to her car. She noticed it was now almost midday – time for a small drink perhaps?

*

By the time James returned to his living room, dressed, Lewis had tidied up the breakfast things, washed up, made fresh coffee, and was sitting, drinking it, watching the cricket.

“You’ll boil,” he said to James as he appeared. James had put on very tight jeans, a long sleeved top pulled over his knuckles and a second tee shirt over the top with some band on it that Lewis had never heard off.

“Boil or fry,” James replied. “I know from experience that going out in sun like this on the river I’ll burn even covered in factor fifty.”

James was so pale and blond this was possibly true, Robbie conceded to himself, casting his mind back to earlier, when the man had been half naked. He also dimly remembered previous summers, when the lad was just his sergeant and he shouldn’t have been noticing so much, that James had frequently ended up with a burnt nose or red cheeks when they had been outside or in the car a lot in strong, hot sun.

Robbie, though, had a mind of a detective, and he also remembered other things from a few months ago and James had not wanted to be left for ten days, and he began to cast his mind back to that gorgeous semi-naked body, scanning his memory for any evidence of self-harm on his wrists or elsewhere. He wished he could remember, but unfortunately at the time he was too busy being distracted by that slim torso and abs. The long sleeves could be covering up something else, after all. And most men so young would surely favour shorts in such heat, especially on the river. Why did James cover up so much? Was it connected to his past, or the recent attack, or was in a hang over from the Seminary? Or just plain lack of confidence? He wished he knew: he wished he could help James relax a little more, feel a little safer with him. Although, the skintight jeans were new – usually he wore ill-fitting jeans too big or very baggy cargos when in civvies. Was that a good sign he was coming out of – whatever? – or was James dressing to please him, which he didn’t want at all. He wanted James comfortable and confident with himself, with who he was.

Looking at James now he realised he had noticed something else that was a little odd and strange about James. It seemed to fly in the face of the boy’s lack of confidence and desire to stay in the closet: make-up.

“What about your face?” he demanded, far more aggressively than he had intended.

“Factor fifty plus foundation with factor twenty and then powder. I bloody hope no UVs can get through,” James replied tartly.

“Ah, I thought you were having one of your Maybelline moments.”

“One day Sir, you are going to have to explain that to me.”

“Before your time James, before your time. God, are you really so young?”

“I am,” James replied, smirking.

“Yeah, and that must make me your sugar daddy.”

“What?!” James’ eyebrows and voice rose with shock or disgust, Robbie couldn’t tell.

“Oh, something our Lyn said,” he replied.

“You told her!”

Damn, he had meant to pick his moment, but the relaxed, teasing batter felt so safe and normal he had dropped his guard. He grew defensive, which on reflection, had not been his best approach. 

“Of course I did. You’re a part of me now, and she’s my daughter. I had too.”

“Oh.” James had gone all neutral, blank, and inscrutable again. You really don’t know how this is done, do he James? He thought sadly. There was nothing to do but move on, James obviously did not wish to talk.

“Come on. Don’t forget your phone.”

*

The scruffy, gangly, young man had returned from the Magic Cafe to his rooms at Balliol College. An American young man had been waiting for him by the staircase door and had followed him up the stairs. He was now outside his door, and had been for sometime, banging on it and yelling,

“Come on man! I know you have some gear. Let me have some man Seb! Please, I need it. Go on. Sebastian!”

“Go away,” called Sebastian.

“Go on. Please man. I know you have some. I can pay.”

Sebastian opened his door. “I don’t have anything here. I’m a chemist. Not a user. All my chemicals I need for my thesis I keep in the lab under lock and key.”

“I’ll pay.” Blond, Californian and as skinny as a rake, the longhaired boy dressed in surf shorts and a bright green tight tee had desperate, pleading, grey eyes. “A hundred dollars,” he offered wildly.

“Make it sterling,” Sebastian said. “And give me an hour.” He did not smile. Sebastian never smiled.

“Thanks man, you’re a life saver,” the young American grabbed Sebastian by the forearm in a salute of thanks. Sebastian stood stiffly, face neutral, cold, and blank, as it frequently was, while he stared at the hand on his arm until it was removed.

“This way,” he said coldly, when it was lifted from his person.

*

Meanwhile, Sebastian’s companion of the breakfast meet-up at the cafe was parking her car, a metallic green Nissan Micra, outside a nineteen sixties build council terrace in unforgiving grey concrete and slate grey roofing, the glaring sun making it look all the more like a condemned prison sentence rather than a community of homes. She was in Barton, another estate outside the boundary of the ring road, as Hobson would see it. The young woman got out of her car, almost tripping on her maxi sundress and awkwardly fetched a box of groceries from the back seat before carefully ensuring the car doors were locked.

*

Lewis and Hathaway did go onto the river. For a while James was in charge of the punt and then he had to show his boss how to punt at Lewis’ insistence. After a few ridiculous attempts accompanied by a lot of laugher, Lewis got the hang of it and James then let him take over, lying back and trailing fingers in the water, gazing a the cloudless sky. Summer had been a long time coming, nothing but grey, overcast skies, drizzle and days of torrential downpours and flooding, since the beginning of June. But now, at last, in the last week of August, it was as if God had turned up the thermostat by at least ten more degrees, for it was thirty degrees Celsius in the shade and muggy with it.

However, it was cooler on the river, and the willows and other trees on the bank created a dappled shade. James switched his gaze to his boss, dressed in short green sleeves, admiring the hard toned muscle on the tanned skin that was still there, despite the fact he was nearing sixty. Lewis always found it hard to believe he could fancy him, but he was gorgeous. James wished he could...

He splashed the water in anger. Robbie looked down at him, startled.

“Nothing,” he lied. But it wasn’t nothing. Every time he tried to fantasise, as he had before, before his boss knew how he felt about him, before he knew his feelings were returned, before the Roschenkovs, he started to panic. Dreams and desires, lusts and needs, were suddenly suffocated by the cold, terrifying flashbacks to being in the back of that truck, to being held down, his mouth forced to...

His work phone rang.

“Hathaway,” he answered. 

Robbie watched as James listened for a while, nodding pointlessly, murmuring few words of consent or agreement, and then James said abruptly,

“But he is back from Manchester. He’s with me now Ma’am. Do you want to talk to him?”


	2. Chapter 2

Lewis manoeuvred the punt to the riverbank so he and Hathaway could swap places and he could take the phone.

It was Innocent, but he had guessed that from James’ conversation.

“Lewis, Ma’am.”

“Ah, good. I was going to have Hathaway dep. for you until tomorrow morning. I thought you were up North with your family.”

“I was Ma’am. Manchester. But I came back, obviously. However, I should point out that...”

“Yes, yes, Lewis. Officially on leave until tomorrow, I know. James is off rota until you’re back, too. But we have a body at Balliol, and you do seem to handle these college cases so well, surprisingly.”

Lewis sighed. “I do, don’t I, Ma’am? We can be there in less than five minutes, unless your policy on suits at all times takes precedence, Ma’am?”

“Five minutes,” murmured Innocent slowly, as if thinking. “Well, I suppose since you’re on leave and happen to be very near... Where the hell are you and Hathaway? What was this about changing places before I could speak to you? And come to think of it, what the hell are you doing with your sergeant on leave, anyway?”

“Doing, Ma’am? We’re on a punt, a stone’s throw from Magdalen Bridge.”

“What the hell are you... No. Don’t tell me. I really don’t want to know. In fact, I’m quite clear that I ought not to know. Okay, attend as you are, I’m assuming you are both casually smart and not in shorts or topless or anything vulgar like that?”

Lewis suppressed a snort, “No Ma’am, nothing like that.”

“Right. Fine. Of course. I thought I knew you both well enough to assume... Good. So, attend as you are as soon as you’re off the river. And Lewis,”

“Ma’am?”

“Be diplomatic Lewis. The victim’s father is in Washington. A Congressman, apparently.”

“I’m always diplomatic, Ma’am.”

Lewis hung up and handed Hathaway his phone back. The punt was already safely back at its home under the bridge next to the Botanic Garden. He climbed out and stomped up the slope to the road over the bridge in what James could only think of as a huff. He could tell Innocent had annoyed his boss. Again. He quite liked Innocent. She had been very kind this last week, keeping him free of the kind of male camaraderie and banter that after his recent experience he knew he couldn’t handle very well. Instead he had been left to collate and file cold cases to look for any similarities that might point to one assailant or thief. It was the kind of thing she had him do soon after he arrived in uniform until she moved him to CID as a DC.

Hathaway hurriedly handed in the punt to the man and gave brief thanks before he followed his boss up the slope, ready to follow across the road to the college, but the stream of traffic was heavy and felt like never ending. From the other side of the road Lewis rolled his eyes at him and tapped his watch, worn as always, the wrong way up.

*

Hobson glared up from the body as the uniformed officer led them into the student’s small room where the body lay on his own bed.

“M’mm,” she snapped out. “Glad to see you dressing for the occasion. What’s got into you Robbie,” she tried to soften her voice a little, but it was hard, she was so, so, angry. She had so wanted to see CID, but now she had an officer, it was this one. “What’s got into you? Innocent won’t be best pleased.”

“I’m on leave, Laura. And I’ve just had my date interrupted. So I’m not best pleased either. If we can just get on with it.”

“Sure,” spat out Hobson. “Young man, probably a heroin user, had his supply cut with I don’t know what. Result: heart failure following a seizure caused by I don’t know what leaving this yellow crusting of the mouth and a yellowing of the eyeballs. And how do I know? Because I’ve seen this twenty times already, not that anyone cared before!”

“Okay. Okay Laura. Calm down. There’s no need to be so aggressive and defensive, is there?”

“No need? No need!” Laura stood up and bore down on him, balling up her fists and walking forwards towards him as if she might punch him. “I have a possible murder, or perhaps manslaughter, because there is definite human agency involved here. But this one, out of twenty-one, is the first to get treated as a murder. 

“And I’ll tell you why! Because here we are!” Hobson waved her arm about, gestured to the ceiling and walls and window, “In this beautiful, medieval building, a site of learning and privilege for countless centuries. But the others, my first two this morning, all the eighteen others, they’re in council houses, bedsits, concrete stairwells, alleys by shops, kids’ play areas in sink estates... No, they’re the usual smackhead, probably an overdose, despite my evidence to the contrary, why waste CID budget over them? No need to even catalogue them as crimes, as no one cares, no one is looking. 

“How dare you show up now when...” Hobson looked up to see Hathaway, who had finished talking the Bursar on the landing, and had also finished getting a summary from SOCO and the uniformed officer. He was standing respectfully behind Lewis in that deferential, slightly creepy, very annoying and completely uncompeteable way he had. “What?” she snapped at him before Lewis could notice his presence.

“Sir?” Hathaway questioned his boss softly, glancing nervously at Hobson, aware his was interrupting something but not sure what. “Doctor?” he added.

“Oh, do go ahead Sergeant,” Hobson snapped at him. “Did we interrupt your date too? You’re looking rather... er?”

“What?” asked James, curious.

“Nice. Rather nice,” she spat back at him with bitter irony, with a heavy emphasis on the nice as a rather old fashioned euphemism for gay.

“Thank you.” He smiled sweetly at her. Whatever was going on between her and Lewis, there was no point in making it worse. “Sir,” he continued, turning to his boss, “the victim is one Amos Calvery, an US citizen, a student at Keble, post grad PPE studies. He’s living and working here at Balliol over the summer as a TEFL teaching assistant and chaperone. He’s twenty-one years old. His father is apparently a...”

“Congressman. Yeah, I know,” Lewis finished for him.

“Ah. That must be why our esteemed leader has her knickers in such a twist,” Hobson interrupted. She took a deep breath, centred herself – she did not want to sound too angry, even though she was - and began,

“This death is exactly like the previous twenty I have encountered over the last two weeks, but only the son of a Congressman at Balliol warrants CID, I see. Do you know, this morning’s first victim had one lonely beat officer in attendance – sixteen he was, poor lamb!” Hobson was losing her fight with herself to stay calm, she knew, much to her annoyance with herself. She went on, “The girl had a CPSO and one officer who looked about twelve, dead in the room next to her own baby and little brother! 

“I keep filing my reports, because whatever it is cut with is unidentifiable and not at all the run of the mill, but not only are they not being treated as suspicious there has so far not even been health bulletins issued to the free needle and rehab clinics, let alone the GP surgeries in the affected areas – which seems to be nearly all East and South Oxford! I am so fucking furious I could...” Hobson stopped herself; her hands were white as she clutched her gloves so tightly, as if she wanted to shred them.

“I can see that Doctor,” Lewis said, voice of calm and sympathy.

She glared at him and then turned to Hathaway, who was squatting by the body.

“The yellow bile comes up and crusts about the mouth, but they don’t choke. The heart stops. Whatever it is, it also discolours the eyeballs.”

She turned back to Lewis, “Where the hell have you been Robbie? I’ve sent you e-mail after e-mail to get you to chase my reports to CID and Drugs.”

“Newcastle, with my niece, then Manchester, with our Lyn, okay? Visiting my brother too. On leave, Laura, I’ve been on leave. Hathaway should have told you.”

“Innocent had me in her office or seconded to Laxton, I’ve not been near your desk all the time you were away, certainly not attended a body to see Dr. Hobson. I’m sorry doctor, for not telling you,” he added very sincerely, or at least he sounded it.

Hobson inclined her head, accepting his apology and Lewis’ explanation.

Lewis went on, “I’m here now Laura. You sound really stressed. Come and have a cup of tea and calm down a bit, give me the full picture, alright? James can finish up here, can’t you?” James nodded fervently. Lewis held out his hand to Laura. “Come on, then.”

Hobson smiled and took his arm. “I can do nothing more until the PM tomorrow morning. But he’s third on my table, being rich and American cuts no ice when you’re dead, the other two go first.”

“Fine. Whatever. Come on.” Lewis led Hobson to the door, and then looked back at James, who was glaring at them. “We’ll be at the Queens Lane Coffee Shop, okay? Join us when you’re done here.”

“Fine Sir.”

“Was he your date then?” Laura asked quietly as they stepped out of their scene suits. They had descended the narrow staircase and were stepping out into the quad before Lewis answered,

“Of course he was Laura. I thought you knew.”

“Well, last I knew it sort of was and wasn’t happening – you know, what with happened to him.”

Robbie sighed deeply, “Aye. Well. We’re still taking things nice and slow, at his pace. It was still a date though.” He sighed again. “Supposed to be a romantic afternoon on the river.”

“And you’re okay with that?” she asked as they stepped out of the college.

“What, another day off rota or on leave that I’m called back in to attend a body? No, not really, but it happens all the bloody time, doesn’t it?” he answered as they walked slowly up the High, avoiding tourists, day trippers, shoppers, but fortunately, at least, no language school students were getting in their way.

“No, not that, the nice and slowly thing you have going with James?” she asked quickly, to hide her embarrassment.

“What choice do I have?” he snapped, the heat and the body and Laura’s mood getting to him, thinking back to how he’d felt before he’d run away up north, like he might explode with frustration or anger, or worse, force the lad into something they would both regret. And to think today was a day to get back with each other, to put some of the things he’d talked over at Willow’s into practice. One day before work got in the way. Was that too much to ask for?

Seemingly it way. “Sorry for snapping Laura,” he said. “So, tell me about you twenty-one dead bodies, then,” he demanded, opening the door of the Coffee House for her.

*

“Twenty-one?” clarified Lewis, after two pots of tea and Hobson’s eating of a savoury pastry and a sticky bun. “And yet some had partners or friends who took the same drug at the same time and didn’t die? Or even get sick in any way? No yellow eyeballs, for instance?”

Laura blinked and stared at him for a moment, so relieved at being taken seriously at last that for a minute or two she couldn’t believe she was being listened to. “Yes. Precisely. Well, as far as I can tell, the boyfriend of my middle victim today, for instance, he could be dead or alive, well, or be suffering side effects. The same goes for many more – this is heroin, after all, not everyone stayed around and phoned an ambulance, in perhaps half the cases the body was discovered after the event, so who knows for certain? One of the first was found in an alley, having not died immediately, unlike those others we have witnesses for. Her husband is a registered user, but claims to be clean, so how can I tell if he is or get a sample when the police haven’t been taking it at all seriously?”

“I’m sorry Laura. We are now. Or at least I am.” At least he hoped he was listening as a police officer, and not his other role, that of an UNIT operative.

“And I’ll tell you something else,” Laura went on, pouring herself her sixth cup of tea, “that I’ve told no-one else, as no-one else is listening.”

“What?”

“The toxicology is all over the place. It’s a chemical formula I can’t recognise, even if I can isolate some of the constituent parts.”

“What?”

Hobson finished her bun before concluding, “It has viral markers, as if whatever the supplier is using to pad out his heroin is infected with an unknown, manufactured virus.”

“But it’s not Anthrax, a mutation of it, something like that?”

Laura looked long and hard at Robbie before demanding, “Why do you do that?”

“What?”

“Hide how bloody clever you are. Pretend you know nothing of medicine and science.”

“I don’t hide anything Laura, and I don’t know much, just what I’ve picked up here and there. And I’m not clever, not like you, or Morse, or James.”

“You are.” Laura squeezed his hand across the table. “And no, nothing like that, entirely unrelated to Anthrax.” She sat back and removed her hand abruptly. “Here’s James.” She waved him over and then stood. “Thank you Robbie. PMs are at eight o’clock sharp, in the order of body, so this will be the last – unless there are any more, of course. Be there.” She grabbed her bag and left, leaving her sunglasses behind. Neither man noticed.

Lewis stood too. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the office. You have twenty cold cases to hunt down for me.”

“Oh joy. Could I possibly get a coffee and a sandwich to take away, Sir?”

“Yep. And one for me too, but I won’t bother with the coffee. I’ve had enough tea with Laura to last me for hours. You wait here, get the food; I’ll get the car. Them cakes look good too.”

James tried to be grateful he was spared the long walk back down the High to the Plain and back up the Iffley Road to past his house to Lewis’ car in the relentless heat, but as he looked at the queue for the takeaway counter, going out of the Coffee Shop and down the street outside with at least twenty Chinese language school students, plus teachers and escorts, he wasn’t sure he had got the best side of the deal after all.

*

Once in the office Lewis set Hathaway to work chasing down paper files spread over three police stations as well as finding all the computer logs of the same cases – or rather, as Hobson had pointed out, non-cases. Essentially he wanted all those sudden deaths listed on the PNC as accidental death caused by ‘misadventure’ or ‘overdose’ relating to heroin over the last two weeks. Lewis himself sat at his desk for the most part, doodling and mulling over all Hobson had told him, wondering why no one but the good doctor had made the connection, why not one DI or DS, and certainly why Innocent or her counterpart at Cowley, had listened to her. Did they just not care enough? Did the postcode and the words benefits and heroin just cause people to switch off and not bother?

He also wondered about the new, unknown chemical composition and the added complexity of a virus? Should he notify UNIT over this? They were set up to investigate the weird and unusual in threat just as much as the alien, after all. Not yet, he decided. He needed concrete facts and evidence. And also, he didn’t want to be disappointed by whoever was in charge now – some stuck-up nob out of Sandhurst no doubt – would take the same dismissive attitude when they heard that poor, often destitute, people with little education for the most part, had died in a heroin related incident, however different and unusual. He supposed, if he were an alien wanting to experiment on humanity, the poor and dispossessed would be a good place to start. But probably a huge city, most likely in Africa or South America, rather than Oxford, England!

After a while he began to carry boxes for Hathaway and made him endless cups of coffee as slowly his sergeant filled four whiteboards with case after case of the unexplained substance cut in with the heroin causing death. As more and more pieces of the puzzle arrived and were dealt with efficiently by Hathaway, Lewis began to see it was far bigger than Hobson had guessed at: all those victims spread far and wide across East Oxford, a few parts of South Oxford, and some outlying villages to the east, could hardly all have the same dealer or pusher.

It took Hathaway all night. At one point Lewis left the building and returned with an Indian takeaway and bottles of beer and then, at a much later point, Lewis crashed, falling asleep in his chair, feet up on his desk, snoring loudly. Hathaway worried about his boss’ back but also appreciated he probably needed his sleep. Hathaway himself had yawned and reached for the caffeine tablets in his desk. He rarely used them these days, Lewis would be horrified, but there were still two whole boxes to go through that had come from Cowley.

At just after five in the morning Hathaway woke his boss with tea made perfectly to Lewis’ liking and complained about the confusing, depressing, poverty-stricken aura of hopelessness about this case, plus the lack of sense, logic, reason or motive. That was, if it was one case, although he didn’t doubt Hobson’s analysis for one moment. Together, the men sat drinking their tea while they surveyed all Hathaway’s hard work. Even the previous three student victims were sad, hopeless cases, Hathaway pointed out, all three about to fail or dropout; unhappy childhoods, probably. Then he sighed and sat down where he stood, on the floor, in front of his boss. He stretched and let out the most enormous yawn before he leaned his head back against his boss’ knee and let Lewis caress his hair. They sat there, staring in silent contemplation at the five covered whiteboards, for a while.

All victims had died of sudden heart failure, all had been found with crusted yellow bile about their mouths and their eyeballs yellowed and bloodshot. Some knew others, some probably shared the same dealer, but with the geographical and social spread, they couldn’t all have shared the one same dealer, so the contamination was happening further up the illegal supply chain. There were no obvious connections at all between all twenty-one of Hobson’s and the seven other cases that Hathaway had found with the same pattern. There was certainly not one person in common that they could see that could be infecting the heroin once in the possession of the victim.

Twenty-eight photos over five whiteboards were arranged around the office between their two desks. It made them all the more real, all the more tragic. Hobson had been right to be angry.

The first was a twenty-seven year old white man from Barton. He had a close-shaved head and a broken-toothed smile. Dressed in an Oxford United shirt, he smiled for whoever had held the camera. He left behind a girlfriend, who was also a user, but had suffered no ill effects at all by whatever had been added to the heroin they had shared. Following his death two weeks ago social services had taken their two small sons into care.

A young Asian boy in a smart school uniform stared out from the board at them looking serious. A sixth former and not yet eighteen, his parents had known nothing of his drug habit until they found him dead in his bedroom in his house in Cowley when he hadn’t come down for breakfast.

The twenty-two year old Brookes student smiled widely between her two friends, cut out for the files’ purposes, just their arms around their dead friend remaining. Her hair was a vivid, bright pink, standing up in short spikes. Her boyfriend was also a user, but yet again, he had survived, although presumably they shared a dealer. Maybe they did with the boy from Cowley considering he attended Cheney Lane School that was next door to the main Gypsy Lane campus of Brookes. However, it was doubtful they shared a dealer or had any connection to the couple from Barton.

The West Indian man stared down from his photo, holding his nephew, a wide, gap-toothed smile, his dreads pulled off his face in a high ponytail. He was from Blackbird Leys, as was the next victim, a young eighteen-year-old mixed race boy. He stared accusingly from the incident board, big, brown eyes under short, bleached on hair.

The next victim was another Brookes' student, a British Chinese lad from London.

Two older women were the next two; a woman in her forties, dirty blonde hair scraped back from her face into a tight, high, ponytail, again from Blackbird Leys. Her boyfriend, also a user, had also survived. Her neighbour, found two days later, was younger, perhaps late thirties, with unbrushed hair. No much was known of her, and the photo was of her body, in situ, as none had been offered by anyone. Her neighbour appeared to be her dealer – or rather, had scored for her as well as herself. She had never left her flat, her neighbours never saw her.

Next, another older woman victim, this time in her fifties, looked down at them. A woman with curled grey hair from Wood Farm, looking as far as Lewis could imagine an addict looking if he had tried. She looked like a lady from a cake shop or a cleaning company. Again she was an addict with her husband. He lived but had claimed he no longer used, although this was disputed by social services and his GP. She had been found in a back alley beside the local shopping precinct, probably dying hours after using, which, according to Hobson, was unusual. Hobson’s file on this woman had a big red felt tip query over it and a request for toxicology and genetic tests on victim and spouse. Her request for funding this had been turned down.

The next one broke Lewis’ heart. A boy, barely seventeen, a mixed race lad in Cowley Road, who had never tried any drugs before in his life, had died trying to please his much older boyfriend. He had lived.

And so the faces across the incident boards went on. Staring down at Lewis, demanding justice, or so he felt. Twenty more dead people stared down, white, black, Asian, mixed race, male of female, young or old. They left behind parents, partners, children, friends. 

Lewis sighed again and realised James’ head had grown very heavy on his leg and his breathing much shallower and more even. He looked down and swallowed. Oh God, James was so beautiful, even with smudged mascara and bags under his eyes, a little frown furrowing his forehead. Sadly, he shook him awake.

“Come on sleepy head. Let’s go home and get dressed.”

“Uh? Oh! Sorry Sir. I never meant to fall asleep.” James sat up sharply, embarrassed.

Lewis couldn’t help it; he grabbed a fist full of his sergeant’s tee shirts and pulled him to him, to kiss him. James pulled away quickly.

“Sir! We’re at work!”

“It’s half past five on a Monday morning. Who’s to see? But yeah pet, I take your point. Come on then, let’s get going. Showers and shaves and suits for both of us. I’ll meet you at the JR at seven, okay? We’ll have breakfast before Laura’s PMs.”

“Okay Sir. Will you drive me home?”

“’Course. Sometimes James, you ask the daftest questions. Good work, by the way. God, it’s sad. But well done. Good hunting down, good collating it all, and good display.”

James smiled a little, bashful smile. “Thank you Sir.” He managed to get out before he struggled to stifle a huge yawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to the non UK reader. Here in the UK with ethnic monitoring, policy, etc, when we say Asian we are talking about people of Indian, Pakistani and Bangladashi descent. We say Chinese and Japanese and stumble for the rest, although apart from Chinese non-Indian subcontinent Asians are not a huge minority in the UK.
> 
> Oxford outside its centre of dreaming spires is vast, but also overcrowded and poorly housed. Oxford has one of the highest homeless popuations in the UK, and one of the highest number of children in poverty outside London, which may surprise people. With despair and destitution, just as the opposite end of high flying academic acheivement and stress, comes the risk of addiction to escape the misery and stress.


	3. Chapter 3

Lewis and Hathaway met in the lobby of the John Radcliffe’s main Level 2 Entrance. It was a large, airy place, with sofas and coffee tables. Hathaway stood when he saw his boss enter. Both men were dressed in suits, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Outside it was another baking hot day, already well past twenty degrees Celsius, and inside, with no air conditioning, it was even hotter. At least, as Lewis remarked to his sergeant, at an attempt to comfort the very flushed Hathaway, it would be cooler on the bare concrete lower levels where the mortuary and pathology were situated.

As soon as they reached Hobson, outside in the corridor, Lewis told her she was right before even saying hello.

“I know I’m right,” she snapped.

“Aye, and I agree with you. We’ve even found seven more of them for you, obviously not your call outs. If I’d not been on leave I’d have flagged this up earlier myself, alright? I’m going to see Innocent as soon as we leave here, okay?”

“Well, okay then,” Hobson said, trying and failing to sound gracious, but feeling, at least, a little mollified, even if she couldn’t quite manage to sound it. She took a breath and opened the fire doors that blocked the corridor. “Shall we make a start?” 

“There’s a pattern,” Lewis said, taking the door and holding it open for both the doctor and Hathaway. “A definite pattern. I can see it, but it’s like... what’s that word? Fractal. Chaotic. We need a key.”

Hobson and Hathaway exchanged worried looks. Neither had ever heard him speak this way. Hobson was grateful to be taken seriously, and James had complied the list of possible victims nearly all of yesterday and a good deal of the early hours of the day, and he could see there must be some connection, but it was like Lewis was talking of something beyond. He didn’t even think his boss thought that way, and he found it exciting to realise he did. However, only a couple of months before had been that incident at the Harwell Synchrotron and he really didn’t want to contemplate the way it seemed his boss’ mind was turning. 

Hobson, meanwhile, did not understand what he was talking about. Someone was cutting the heroin with something experimental. Lewis had to find who and what, not get poetical. It was obviously some untoward Morse influence she had not before come across.

“I need to... I dunno... Right,” Lewis pulled himself together. “Started, you said.” They now stood outside the main post-mortem room.

“You expect us to stay for all three post mortems?” Hathaway asked nervously, sounding more than a little shaky. He wasn’t exactly squeamish, but a full PM, let alone three, on nothing but a few cups of tea... His stomach squirmed at the thought.

“Yes,” replied Hobson unsympathetically, opening the door to her main lab and stalking in. Lewis cast Hathaway a sympathetic glance before they followed her.

“Ian Bambera, sixteen years old,” Hobson said abruptly. “Smoked heroin, according to the local beat officer. He’d had run ins with the poor boy going back the last four years – possession and theft mostly.”

“Since he was twelve?”

“Not much else going on in his life, poor sausage. Mother an alcoholic, succession of abusive ‘dads’, no money...” Hobson caught Hathaway’s look of disapproval and snapped, “and no brains to give him a lovely scholarship to a posh boarding school, Miss Picky Judgemental!”

Hathaway shot the doctor a look of pure venom while Lewis raised his eyebrows in disapproval, “Just get on with it Laura man. Just think yourself lucky I know you’re angry and tired, and I didn’t just hear a homophobic slur on my sergeant, alright,” he snapped. He turned to James, “If you’re not feeling up to the PMs, lad, get yourself home for some breakfast and a nap. I’ll see you in our office at midday. Once you’re back at work I want you to chase up all the victims’ medical records, as well as police and social service – educational too, if they’re young and they’ll give you them without too much fuss. And get me a meeting with Innocent as soon as possible, will you?”

“Sir,” Hathaway forced himself to look at Hobson, “doctor.” He left. 

“Robbie... I’m sorry...”

“I think it’s James who needs the apology, okay? Let’s focus Laura; we’ve got ourselves a potential man-made epidemic on our hands here in Oxford. There’s nothing like this anywhere else on the PNC or... elsewhere. I’ve checked before I got here.”

“Right. I didn’t think so. I am sorry though, I shouldn’t...”

“No you shouldn’t. Not the phrasing, not the subject. James has had a tough childhood, we all don’t mention it at the station, and there’s a reason for that. As for anything else, I’m with James now. I know you’ve always... liked me... But Laura, we’re friends, that’s how I feel and I hope we can stay friends. If that’s too hard, then   
I hope we can at least be professional colleagues.”

“Robbie, I’m sorry, I...”

“You’re stressed Laura. Look, I know you’ve done this already, nearly twenty times, but I’ve not been here for them. Can we focus on the PMs now? I need to see for myself, okay?”

Laura took a deep breath and shuddered. “Yes. Right. Okay. Let’s start on the boy.”

*

After the post-mortems the sense of a strange pattern was growing even stronger in Lewis. The same death: inexplicable heart failure followed by a yellowing of the eyeballs and the rising of foaming yellow bile from the stomach to the mouth either before or during the heart attack, where it crusted. This happened to both smokers and injectors. Hobson could only catalogue the symptoms, not isolate causes. Likewise, she could deconstruct the additive to its individual chemical, biochemical and viral constituents, but what it was, what it was making, and what its purpose was, as a whole, she had no idea.

*

The post-mortems took a while, and Innocent wasn’t available when Lewis got back to the station, so he had time to fortify himself with a cup of strong builder’s tea and a couple of Mars Bars before he finally met her at ten forty-five. Her immediate attack put him on the back foot. She stood in front of her desk. Not invited to sit down, Lewis also stood, by the door.

“Why have you not been back to the college? I’ve had both the Bursar and the Master on the phone. A courtesy visit wouldn’t go amiss, Lewis. Really, what were you thinking? This is one of the most oldest, most respected colleges...”

“So, that’s why this one victim gets attention, is it? According to Dr. Hobson, this is the twentieth, and you...” Lewis retorted hotly before Innocent interrupted him,

“Inspector! Calm down! What do you mean, twentieth? Does this explain your requests for paper notes across this and two other stations? In the early hours of the morning, in some cases, I’ve been led to understand?”

“Yes Ma’am. There’s a pattern. I need to investigate...”

“What does Laura say?”

“She agrees. She’s been pointing out for quite a while...”

“About the Congressman’s son at Balliol, Inspector.”

“He’s not even up at Balliol, merely working there for a summer job. He’s a post-grad Rhodes scholar up at Keble.”

“Nevertheless, what does Laura say?”

“Same as all the others, Ma’am. Heroin user, this one happens to be a smoker, but from what Dr. Hobson says, it makes sod all difference. But he liked chasing the dragon, living on the edge, so Hooper tells me. I’ve had him and uniform interview all who knew him at Oxford. Laura’s certain the tox screen will show that the heroin was cut with the same substance as all the others.”

“Until we get the results back, let’s not speculate Lewis. So, she will rule accidental death due to a heroin overdose, or it being mixed with something. Or perhaps death by misadventure? Some such, anyway, and not murder Lewis. Another tragic waste of a brilliant mind?”

“No Ma’am. There is a pattern. A definite pattern. Laura can’t identify the substance – she’s talking of viral as well as unknown chemical markers. All victims, isolated from each other, they look like the accidental deaths of addicts. Put together they make a pattern.”

Innocent sat down at her desk and removed her clip-on earrings one by one. She pointed to the chair in front of her desk as she said, “So.” She scowled as Lewis did not sit and continued, “How can the good doctor be so sure of a pattern?”

“The symptoms Ma’am. The symptoms. She must have e-mailed you the results by now.” Lewis swallowed back an angry sigh and tried not to glare back at his boss as he walked up to her desk and gripped the back of the chair.

Innocent turned on her monitor and tapped at her keyboard. While she read Hobson’s reports, Lewis finally sat down.

“And you attended all three of these post-mortems this morning?”

“Yes Ma’am. I needed to see for myself.”

“And yesterday, after speaking to Dr. Hobson, you looked up the previous seventeen she had flagged for attention?”

“Yes Ma’am. And James found seven others, attended by other pathologists.”

“That reminds me, where is Sergeant Hathaway, by the way? I understand he’s not been in this morning?”

“I sent him home for a sleep, or at least a bit of a rest, Ma’am. He’s been up ’til five this morning in the office, and then only went home to shower and change and meet me at the mortuary. He’s been chasing down all these cases, making me a damn fine incident board. I had a nap at my desk, but he’s been at work all night and half the morning already Ma’am. He’s not slept at all. He’s due a break, wouldn’t you agree? I told him to be back by lunch.”

“I can see you’ve got the bit between your teeth, Robbie, but these are not cold cases, they’ve been ruled accidental or death by misadventure and written off.”

“Aye, coz the poor people don’t count, do they? Not being at fancy colleges with powerful dads!”

“Lewis!”

“You know it’s true Ma’am. Isolated, that lad yesterday was one more statistic. CID was only called in at all to mollify the University and the Chief Constable. You want me to make the same ruling as all the others, but just to be diplomatic about it, don’t you? Did you think it had escaped my notice that the Master’s an old crony of Morse’s and he knows me of old as Morse’s bagman? It’s why you called me back off leave a day early. Sheer bloody politics.”

“Inspector!”

“Can you deny it, Chief Superintendent? Can you?”

Innocent looked away, ashamed, and hung her head. She picked up her earrings from the desk and fiddled with them.

“Well then,” Lewis went on as if his boss had spoken. “This is big Ma’am. It needs investigating. These victims span more than one small time dealer, possibly more than two middle suppliers. They are not all connected socially or even live near each other. So how is an unknown, no doubt experimental, stuff, getting into their drugs and killing some off and not others? And if it comes to it, why do some die and not others?”

“Can you prove intent to kill? To harm? Not just to maximise profit? Can you prove that there is a person or persons unknown behind this outbreak of deaths among the city’s heroin users?”

“No Ma’am, not as yet, I can’t. But I can’t prove there isn’t, either. And if you look at how they all died, you will see a pattern – an unexplained list of symptoms and reactions that leads, inexplicably, to heart failure. It’s the same chemical. It has to be. Across half the city, among vast different social classes and groups of people? It can’t be put down to one dealer. Besides, two of the deaths were small time dealers, and according to Drugs, they were being watched to lead them to bigger suppliers – and not the same suppliers, neither. So, how and why is this happening Ma’am?”

Innocent suddenly felt cold inside. “This isn’t simple, Lewis, I have to justify this investigation, find funding.”

“I won’t deny it’s big Ma’am, or in isn’t complicated. It’s unexplained. I can get you outside funding, Ma’am, and still lead. I’ll need to officially co-opt James, though...”

“At the moment you are officially investigating the death of Amos Calvery at Balliol. If, to do that, you need to review other cases of a similar nature, to clarify whether he was in fact murdered rather than just another sad addict accidentally overdosing, then I can square that with accounts and the Chief Constable. Providing you don’t use too many valuable resources.”

“Like?”

“DCs. And uniform. It’s just you and Hathaway on this Lewis, and count yourself lucky I’m countering the use of Hathaway on what should be a statistic.”

Lewis’ pale eyebrows were raised so high they disappeared into his receding hairline as he glared at her in disbelief and anger. “I told you I can get the funding,” he snapped.

“If this all gets too much for you, come back to me, but...” Innocent shrugged. “Since the incident at Harwell a few months ago, I have been officially informed of your other... hat you wear, shall we say?... from time to time. But for now, can we please keep this investigation to within the Thames Valley Police?”

Lewis looked his boss, rubbed his eye, and sighed deeply. “It is inexplicable, Ma’am...”

“Unexplained. As yet. Not...” Innocent trailed off, feeling sick, not wishing say something like other-worldly, paranormal, or even worse, alien, although all three sprang to her mind as soon as Lewis started talking of getting outside agency funding.

“No Ma’am. And nineteen times out of ten, there is always a human motive at the heart of all investigations with my other...” Lewis’ mouth twitched as he tried not to grin, “hat,” he concluded with an almost straight face.

“So, what are you plans?”

“I need to understand the pattern, first. Distribution. Timelines. How many victims with other people taking with them at the same time with the same dose and batch survived? That kind of thing. Then I need to get to the dealers. Question them. See if I can trace it all back to the suppliers. Then I’ll need to interview them. Trace it back to one bigger supplier, smuggler, or factory. And I’ll need to give them all immunity Ma’am. Whoever I find and interview, I can’t share their details with Drugs. Not until we’ve found and convicted whoever is cutting the heroin with this toxic, experimental bio-chemical manufactured virus.”

“Right. Okay. Fine. I can see that makes sense. I don’t like the idea of turning a blind eye to heroin pushers, but I can see it makes sense. I don’t think it is going to win you any favours with Drugs, though.”

“They’re a law unto themselves anyway, Ma’am. Frequently don’t cooperate with CID in my experience.”

“Well, um, yes. I’ll see what I can do. Keep me posted regarding the Balliol investigation. And Lewis, please try to get back to the college today with some kind of reassuring platitudes.”

“Ma’am.”

“Right. Off you go then,” Innocent said briskly, as Lewis continued to sit at her desk, looking annoyingly amused. She turned to her monitor so as not to watch him leave her office. She felt very unsettled indeed. Lewis had implied someone – or frighteningly, something – was deliberately experimenting on one of the most vulnerable parts of Oxford’s population. She felt very uncomfortable with the thought, sickened by it, in fact.

*

Sebastian had sat on his bed, rocking, for many hours now. Ever since the body had been discovered in the rooms opposite his. He could hear the comings and goings of first the porter after Amos’ girlfriend has discovered his body and screamed very loudly. Then the ambulance crew, police officer, pathologist or police surgeon, more police officers; some in uniform and some in scary all in one white, plastic over suits. It had reminded him of that scene in ET that had terrified him so much as a small boy that he still had the reoccurring nightmares. Finally, two police officers wearing jeans had arrived. The young one, wearing very tight clothing and make-up, had spoken to him, despite his having already talked with the nice young policewoman in uniform all about Amos.

Well, not all about Amos. He’d told them both how he knew Amos was an addict. How he, Sebastian, was interested in the chemical processes and changes in the brain that caused and were caused by addiction and various addictive substances. He even told them that while his Masters had been spent examining nicotine, his PhD was looking at opium. He did not tell them he was licensed to use codeine, morphine, street heroin, and opium in its pure, unrefined, form. He certainly did not tell them he had given into Amos’ pushy, desperate demand and reluctantly supplied him with the heroin from his lab licensed only for experimentation.

It shouldn’t have happened! 

It wasn’t his fault!

It fact, he believed that Thames Valley Police were supplying his supervisor with some of the samples, so maybe it was their fault.

Shit, so they would know about his licensed experiments!

Should he have mentioned them?

But it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t!

In fact, Amos was stupid! It was his fault. He had given himself an overdose. That was all. His heroin was probably purer than anything Amos could buy from a street dealer. That pathologist he overheard must have been mistaken. Because he, Sebastian, would not have made a mistake like that.

It was not his fault.

The nice, young, policewoman had made him sweet tea and had been kind. So had the gay CID officer. At least, Sebastian was sure he must be gay, wearing those tight jeans and mascara. The Bursar, he knew, had whispered to both of them about Peter.

Poor Peter. Dead the same way as Amos. Maybe.

But it wasn’t his fault! It wasn’t!

Sebastian continued with his rocking. He’d not eaten, drunk or slept now for almost twenty-four hours. He knew he had to do something, to pull himself together, or ask for help. Something. Finally, he reached for his phone and texted Francesca. She was practically his only friend up at Oxford. She had been Peter’s girlfriend. She understood him. She didn’t think he was weird. He knew most people thought he was weird. Amos did. He had only spoken to him when he wanted something. Money. Drugs. Food. Otherwise, he would laugh at him behind his back, just like they all did. Peter did, all the time, and called him weird. He always had done.

But Francesca never did. She was kind to him. Understood how important his research was. She would help him now.

A few moments later his phone bleeped.

‘Don’t say anything unnecessary. Tell the police nothing. Will be there in ten minutes.’


	4. Chapter 4

Lewis returned to his office feeling as if he had lost a battle but might, perhaps, could win a war, however insurmountable the odds currently seemed. With nearly thirty victims living and dying over an area covering vast tracks of Oxford and outlying villages and estates, plus their spanning a period of time of nearly three weeks. Each victim had family and friends to interview, GPs and perhaps social workers or therapists to interview too. In some cases there were also schools to liase with too. All had to be done by him and James. That was a lot of basic police investigating and liasing with other agencies normally left to the DCs and uniform. It didn’t look like he and James would get a lot of time to sleep, or even eat, let alone take off, metaphorically, their police hats and put on their relationship ones and continue to work through poor James’ post rape... stuff...

And listen to himself. Hats! Dear God, he sounded like Innocent. He obviously needed some sleep more than he realised.

Damn! There was also his Lyn, and the imminent birth of his first grandchild. With his poor, wee Lyn all alone up in Manchester, the baby’s father deserting her and... Mark! God alone knew where the other side of the planet. And his Val... gone, along with his Mam and mother-in-law. Who else did his girl have but him and James?

Right. He needed to focus, badly. He needed to push thoughts of Lyn, the baby, and especially James the needy boyfriend aside, because he was going to need and put to serious use the professional capacities of the brainy Sergeant Hathaway to the limit thanks to Innocent not even allowing him one measly DC for the donkeywork.

*

When he opened the office door, Lewis’ heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t help it. James was sat at his desk, busy. He was on the phone, obviously holding on to be connected, leaning on it propped up on his shoulder, tapping at his keyboard with his left hand while his right hand was doodling on the edge of a pad full of notes concerning social services and individual victims. On the screen was the name Steven Joshua Smith, with an address, next of kin, GP name and address, plus details of a Family and Child social worker and name of a child and the name and details of a case worker from a drugs project run by a local charity.

James looked up as he came in and mouthed ‘hi’ in a rather flirty manner for a bagman before he answered the person on the phone in his finest, richest, educated tones,

“Yes. Thanks. DS Hathaway.

“That’s right. We’re treating it now as a possible murder, in connection with several others...”

Lewis sat down and switched on his own computer but then ignored it and stared at the five incident boards James had set up for him. It was a right mess. There was no clear pattern. The names, locations and photos had been arranged according to the date, starting with the earliest and ending with the American lad at Balliol. Until this boy, the victims had all been living and found in East and South Oxford. There had been no cases in the city centre or the University. Well, three victims at Brookes University, but most of the students from there lived in and around Headington or in East Oxford. There were indications, maybe, that it – whatever ‘it’ might be – was, or might be, moving north and westwards. So far there had been no victims in Marsden or North Way, and the only victims in Headington had been Brookes students living in Halls. Victims also appeared to be mostly working class and in low-income groups. But then, these were addicts, and addiction could plummet you from cushiest middle class home to a bedsit or hostel living on benefits or charity. 

But it was a mess. He needed to somehow look beyond, through... something!

When James had finished his call, Lewis asked, “How long have you been in?”

“Not long. About fifteen to twenty minutes, thereabouts. Long enough to get hold of five GPs and three social workers to send us the files of their patients or clients.”

“Good job so far then. I’m afraid you’re going to be doing a lot of that. Innocent took a lot of persuading to let us investigate all the deaths as it is. Officially we’re only looking into them to clarify the college boy’s death, just to rule out murder, to pacify the university powers that be, that’s all Innocent has in mind, I think. Bloody politics and accounts, that’s all she seems to care about sometimes. It’s just us; she’s given me no funding on this for DCs or uniform. I’m supposed to be grateful I’ve got you.”

James grinned sheepishly and lowered his eyes flirtatiously. “You should be grateful to have me, Sir.”

“Oh, I am,” Lewis retorted, grinning, “I am. But pay attention James. You can’t delegate a single damn thing. Anything I can’t do you have to. End of. No DCs or uniform or tech on this at all. Orders from Her Highness Jean Innocent.”

James’ smile disappeared into a tiny scowl. “None? None at all?”

Lewis shook his head. “Nope.”

“Oh. And I’m only five down from a list of twenty nine here.”

“Twenty nine?”

“Yes Sir. I’ve found yet another one. Wheatley village.”

“Oh. Male or female?”

“A white woman. Forty-six. A mother and grandmother. Partner also an addict, but survives.”

“This is getting bigger and bigger. It’s going to be a long afternoon, isn’t it? Plus, Innocent needs me to visit Balliol and be diplomatic.”

“You? Diplomatic?” Hathaway snorted. “Priceless.”

“I have my moments! You’d better e-mail me half of that list and I’ll get on making calls...” Lewis grinned. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea! Why didn’t you think of it, you’re supposed to be young Wonderboy and an ace at IT...”

“Think of what Sir?”

“Let’s compose a template e-mail for the doctors and another for the social workers and that, and one for the head teachers, and so on. Send them out in one shot to whoever from all of the list of victims.”

“E-mails can be ignored. Phone calls from a police officer directly are not so easy to ignore, are they?”

“True. But let’s give it a go, okay? Give them twenty-four hours to respond, then phone the others tomorrow late afternoon. It should at least cut the list of calls in half. Hopefully.”

“Sounds like a plan,” James said, immediately opening up a word doc and starting on a GP letter template.

“It’ll give us more time. You see, I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh no, what do you have in mind?”

“I’ve been looking at the boards.”

“Yes?”

“And as it is, it’s hard to make sense of the chaos. See the pattern.”

“And?”

“So, let’s start again. This time, let’s sort them by location, rather than with the timelines with all these confusing tries at connecting the victims by all these marker pen lines. Let’s start again from scratch. By area.”

“Start again?” Hathaway asked forlornly.

“Yep.”

“By we, you mean me, don’t you?”

“Yep.”

“It took me hours.”

“Well, this time you’ve a bit of a head start on yourself. You’re more familiar with them.”

“Well, er, I suppose so, but...”

“But nothing. Get those e-mail templates drafted, send them out, and then get on with it.”

“Why don’t you write the e-mails while I make a start on the incident boards. It took me seven hours before.”

“Na. You’re so much better at English than me.”

“Why, thank you Sir.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Besides, I have to be ‘diplomatic’ to the bloody college, remember?”

Hathaway grinned at Lewis’ fair impression of the Chief Super’s body language and emphasis, if not her voice.

*

By the time Lewis has returned from his diplomatic trip, Lewis found James completing the newly arranged incident boards. The mass e-mails had been sent to appropriate social work teams, GPs, drug support workers, both NHS and charities, plus head teacher and college principal where relevant. James had also gone back into the PNC and HOLMES 2 chasing the description Lewis had already flagged and found two more isolated incidents in Witney and High Wycombe, and had linked them with footnotes to the boards connecting Cowley and Wood Farm due to family and origin.

“Good work, James,” he said as he came in and picked up the note on his desk concerning the new cases. Lewis himself had made a call to the Tower of London and logged into the UNIT system on his Blackberry. From it he could not only access HOLMES 2 but intelligence and military systems if he needed to. Oh, he knew how he liked to play up to the old man befuddled by technology, but the truth was he had always kept up with advances in computers and their relevance and usefulness to investigations. Innocent had decided early on he must be a dinosaur, and why disillusion her, if it got him out of so much tedious work. He wasn’t sure yet if he needed to reactivate his Black Ops status, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared. Hobson felt sure there was something engineered and experimental with what was being cut, and he trusted her. He had spoken to the new head in Britain, and she had commended him and upgraded his access to yellow, which was pretty useful. She’d impressed him with her willingness to listen, second hand, to the theories of one lowly Home Office forensics pathologist and care enough about the marginalized and excluded victims. She had reiterated that new and unusual threats were the purview of UNIT as much as the alien. She mentioned something about the number of rogue scientists that had been dealt with in the early, heady, days of the seventies or eighties under Lethbridge-Stewart. The way she mentioned him and her surname soon led Robbie to put two and two together and he was more impressed. That a scientist not a military person was now in charge has impressed him enough back at Harwell. Although then he had only dealt with the military under a lowly, rather macho, African woman captain.

James sat back on his heels to admire his work. He sighed and stood in one elegant, fluid, movement, and rubbed at the base of his spine. He looked tired and drawn.

“Tell you what, you nip out for a quick smoke, you look like you need one lad, and I’ll have a look at the boards and have a think. Take your time, and pick us up some tea, it’s going to be a long night.”

“Sir?”

“Two of us, remember?”

“Don’t remind me. What do you fancy?”

A good, long, soak in a hot bath? A decent night’s sleep? Calling my Lyn? You? “Whatever. But not curry, we had that yesterday.”

“Fine. I’ll get pizza, easier to eat and crack on.”

*

James went for a walk in Christchurch Meadow and smoked two cigarettes, musing on addictions and the case. He knew he had an addictive personality, and he should understand, but he felt he sometimes was hard on people like these, too judgemental for someone with his faith, too harsh and unkind. He was dependant on the nicotine and caffeine, he knew. And, if he was honest with himself, borderline alcoholic, he drank heavily, especially alone, he relied on it when really unhappy or stressed. The only reason he wasn’t drinking so heavily anymore was due to the fact he was on anti-depressants, and he tried once to come of those and look what had happened? He’d started to cut himself again.

God, he was a mess. He had no right to judge a heroin addict.

He trusted Hobson’s analysis and Lewis’ judgement, but he couldn’t understand why heroin would be cut for any other reason than to make it spread and maximise profit. To cut one person’s to kill, well that would make sense, and it would be straightforward murder, by someone who knew the victim, who had motive and opportunity. Why, it would be a poisoning with the classic MO of a murderer out of an inter-war detective novel. But this? What was it, some religious freak on a cleansing spree, believing that God had called them to weed out the weak and sinful addicts? But how? How get the contamination so far and wide? And where were they getting this unknown substance? The only organisations to be able to reach so many addicts with different dealers over such a wide area would be a charity. A Christian charity? But as far as James knew, the Oxford Churches Together ran a couple of drop-in centres and a soup kitchen, but otherwise merely collected funding for secular charities that worked with addicts and their families. The only one who had such a wide outreach would be The Door, which provided food parcels to families of addicts of all sorts and now, as well, ran a general food bank, from this year. They also ran workshops and training programmes for those reformed addicts out of rehab to give them a chance at becoming employable. But The Door was run by Anglican nuns and it was unthinkable that any could be barmy enough to want to kill people. Too many checks and balances in a religious order to stop someone taking the Bible in their own hands, so to speak, and believing they were the Lords tool of vengeance. That was more an evangelical mental illness. Or Jesuitical, he supposed. But he would keep an open mind. It wouldn’t hurt to pay the Mother Superior a call and ask a few gentle questions. She might have some ideas herself, after decades of serving the addicts of Oxford.

*

Lewis sat back in his chair at his desk after making himself at cup of tea and admired all James’ hard work for the second time. There were now seven incident boards and this time each one contained one or two areas or housing estates of Oxford. Definitely Town and not Gown. No posh nobs for Innocent to get her knickers in a twist over. She was like so many working class kids who made it to Oxford – taken in by its glamour. For all his defence and bitterness at dropping out, Morse had been like that. Strange, without the degree, had been even more seduced by his invites to High Table. Lewis was suspicious of them, at the very least, despite falling in love himself with a Cambridge boy. But, as James had told him on more than one occasion, England’s first university was more one of proper academia and study, less of the chancers and the ambitions politicians.

But full of clever comedians, Lewis always retorted, which always got a smile out of James.

When on Earth were they going to have time to just sit on his sofa with a beer or glass of wine or cup of tea and just chill out watching old episodes of QI on Dave? This felt like it was going to be a long, difficult case, with probable interruptions, as he had no doubt the next body that was found would be given to him, as Innocent had given this case such low priority, Balliol Congressman’s son not withstanding.

Lewis returned his attention to the boards. Barton was a sixties and seventies build just south of Headington off the Green Road roundabout and the main London A40 route, just outside the ring road, one of only two bits of Oxford to have spread outside the enclosing bypass. It was a soulless sort of place, mostly grey concrete blocks and terraces, with its own ugly, run down, shopping precinct. Plenty of good, honest, citizens lived there. Most had took the opportunity to buy their council houses back in the eighties and now many up and coming young homeowners moved in, not able to afford anything closer to the city centre. But there was still plenty of social housing, now run by private businesses and charities, the council long ago subcontracting much of its housing stock out in the late nineties. It was a mix of hard-working, honest working class and lower middle class family along with a smattering of the socially excluded. It was tempting to think the victims fell into the latter group, but of course, Lewis knew that some addicts still held it together enough to keep down a job, as long as they got their fix. They were not the ones usually known to the police, however, as a salary would fund their hits. The new government was beginning to cut its benefits to those who were too sick to work due to an addiction, dividing the world into the deserving and undeserving, thus pushing more and more otherwise law-abiding people into crime to feed their addiction.

Barton had had thirteen victims in the last two weeks, including the first one Laura had documented, and James hadn’t been able to find anyone earlier with his case file hunt. Ben Wright, aged just twenty seven, had lived in Bassett Road, in a normal two up, two down, nineteen seventies council build terrace. He had been a plumber, his girlfriend a hairdresser, but both had at some point become heroin users and their world had slowly fallen apart. Ben’s girlfriend, Polly, had survived, but social services had already become involved due to the primary school’s concern and had promptly taken their two boys into custody practically the same time the body had been removed by Laura. Polly Wakefield was certainly worth an interview, but the poor lass obviously would need a gentle handling.

As would the second victim’s parents, as like the poor lad in Cowley, his parents had found him dead in his own bedroom. Another straight A student, this time mixed race, rather than fully Pakistani, with an English mother and Indian father. But following the path of the deaths in order might make some sense? Perhaps there was some kind of chain reaction, one victim leading to the next, and so on. But apart from living two streets apart, the connection between the first two was not clear. A plumber, in his late twenties, and a school lad with a father in retail and a teaching assistant as a mother, could have nothing in common. The mother did not work at the plumber’s boys’ school. He doubted they moved in the same social circles, but it would have to be checked. Any lead, however tenuous, would be welcome.

There was then a cluster, as Barton had the ninth, then eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth cases, and then the seventeenth and eighteenth. The eleventh victim, also, left a surviving partner who had also been an addict. He had been another young lad, this time twenty-eight, Jim McShane, and his girlfriend, twenty-two, who was now, apparently, in hospital. She had taken an overdose following his death; quite deliberate. Another delicate interview, obviously.

Blackbird Leys, along with its newer overspill, Greater Leys, was the only other estate outside the modern city walls, as it were, beyond the ring road boundary. It had once been famous or notorious for its displays and before that for being both the largest housing estate and the largest concentrated West Indian population in Western Europe. Better now than before, it still came with a raft of social problems and was a policing nightmare at the best of times. Only a few years ago the local bus drivers threatened strike action, refusing to drive past the Cowley Centre over the bridge crossing the by-pass into the estate for fear of attack and mugging. The Princes Trust had got involved following the massive media interest in teenage boys, as young as twelve or thirteen, stealing cars to order, racing them around the estate for the entertainment of seemingly the whole population, before firebombing them. Morse had been cynical at the time, about the media interest and HRH’s involvement. But Lewis had seen a lot of good come from the Princes Trust and other charity initiatives that had followed in its wake and he was pleased, and a little surprised, to see that the once most drug ridden area, the place most students would go to score, had only five victims in the just over two weeks they were investigating.

Cowley spread out and up from the Cowley Road running for miles, housing being mostly Victorian workers cottages and early twentieth century coupled with another spurt of fifties build, with new build flats and small housing projects and tiny starter homes squeezed into old factory sites and once larger gardens. It had traditionally housed the car factory workers, when once the car plants had covered an area four times the size of the current BMW mini plant. Car manufacture went back over a hundred years, of course, to the Morris plant. Nowadays, you were as likely to find a university lecturer next door to novelist and a retail worker next door to a student share. It was the most ethnically diverse area, and housed most of the Brookes students and a vast quantity of Oxford’s. Cowley and Cowley Road had the most victims, and possibly, according to Drugs, were where most the dealers might be. It seemed another good place to start.

Wood Farm sprawled down the hills from Headington, once a large post-war housing estate expanded in the sixties, originally joining older, larger Victorian properties to Greenfield, the said meadows and grasslands that had belonged to the Hospitals had been recently been sold off for little red brick starter homes between the Nuffield, Churchill and Warnford Hospitals. It incorporated many newer Brookes accommodation too. It also had one of the few high-rise council flats – high-rise, that was, for the gloriously historic Oxford, six or seven stories at the most. The others were found in Oxpens and out in North Way, neither of which were yet to have any victims. And it was an interesting fact in itself, that the city centre, not even its notorious Westgate and Oxpens, had any deaths. Wood Farm had only two victims, one of the ones the day before and the one Laura had circled with big question marks and requested a fuller tox screen and a full DNA analysis – the one who had taken hours to die.

Wheatley was a village some miles along the A40 out in the London direction. It had a large Brookes University campus; its business site, with considerable accommodation and its own bus service. And, strangely, one of the largest registered heroin addict populations in a rural village. It had another five victims, including the third, a white female who had a user boyfriend who survived her, the one James had located, lost in the system, attended not by Rawbone but a locum.

There were estates and areas not represented with any deaths that were a surprise to Lewis. Rose Hill was one, North Way another, as were areas such as parts of Headington and Iffley and Iffley Road. There seemed no spread in either direction to the estates of the Abingdon Road or in the opposite direction to Marsden. This suggested a large, and as yet, unknowable, distribution of the cut supply, but the vast distances in both space and class and community discounted even on small supplier to several user-dealers.

Lewis squinted at the boards to see if any pattern came into his head. He kept almost getting it – some distribution, not the dealers, maybe? But what? And how, then, would this person distributing who knew what, get the drugs contaminated. And why? For what possible reason?

He got up and made himself some more tea.

Dr. Hobson was not only interested in the deaths, although she had been flagging them as murders for two weeks, desperate to be taken seriously. She also wanted to know more about the substance, more about what it was, what its purpose was, was it a designer high, a new add on, or something more sinister, designed to kill by a madman. Lewis had two more questions. Was it being created as an experiment, and if so, was the creator of Earthly or other origin? But he didn’t feel ready to share that with James, and explicitly could not share it with Laura. He’d hinted enough to Innocent to let him investigate and it was obvious she did not want any more details.

*

Lewis was still contemplating the boards, thinking through possible courses of action, while doodling on his pad, when James returned bearing two dominos pizzas, garlic bread, a two litre bottle of cola and a bag of fun sized Mars Bars because,

“You looked like you needed it Sir. I contemplated a heart shaped box of soft centres from Thortons but thought you’d appreciate these more.” 

He grinned back cheekily at Lewis’ look of exasperation and then added, “Thanks for the break Sir. I needed it.” As he spoke, Hathaway titled his head, looking at all the different flow charts and scribbled notes spread about Lewis’ desk, each beginning with a different victim, with a different set of circumstances, whether or not they had a surviving user partner of friend of friends and whether they had any connections at all with other victims found in the same area or in the same time frame.

Lewis watched him looking, a frown of concentration beginning to mar his passive features, his smooth, young face. “I can’t decide where to begin,” Lewis said, reaching for the pizza boxes Hathaway had put at the end of his desk.

“So I can see. I would think this one.” Hathaway picked up the scrunched up bit of paper that referred to Cowley and Cowley Road. “This one starts with the first victim and covers the area where most deaths have occurred.”

“Yeah. At first I thought about that too. Makes sense, as you say. But then I have to get Innocent’s approval, so I decided that first thing, you and I will go here.” Lewis stood and tapped the fifth white board, marked ‘other areas’, hitting the section devoted to the three victims from Brookes University. 

The first Brookes student was, in fact, the third victim, and had a boyfriend who was also a user, who lived off the Cowley Road. She had lived in Halls in Headington. Her happy white face smiled down at them under Lewis’ splayed fingers. 

The sixth victim had also been a Brookes student, a business studies student living in the Halls in the campus near to Wheatley village. A Chinese English lad from Shoreditch, London. His parents were reported to be shocked by the fact he had being experimenting with drugs of any kind. His tutors reported that he had been failing for two semesters. He looked down from the incident board looking serious in his suit, taken at some family wedding. 

There was then a gap until the third Brookes student who had died – she was the nineteenth victim, also white and aged just nineteen, the only first year on their list, also living off Cowley Road. She grinned happily between her two friends, chopped out, fairy blonde hair with braids and beads and dyed coloured strands all a-flyaway over her face. She made Hathaway uncomfortably think of his favourite cousin, who had also been an art student at Brookes. For a moment he was lost, with his cousin lecturing him about the amount of dope he was smoking since he’d dropped out of the Seminary, especially, she had pointed out archly, if he was serious about applying to join the police force. But it had been hard, living in the flat of a small time dealer...

No, he really could not judge. He forced himself back to the investigation.

“Why?” he asked. “The Cowley connection seems more logical, and two of these fit in with that one anyway, so...”

“We’re investigating Amos Calvery, remember?” Lewis cut him off. “Officially it’s one brief unexplained death of a student. For us to make any headway with support, Innocent has to sell it to Accounts and the Chief Constable.”

“Hence the student connection. Isn’t that rather cynical?”

“Yup. Very. Which is my pizza? It’s not got anchovies on, has it? I hate the bloody slimy things.”

“Meat feast and four cheese, so take your pick.”

“Or we could share both?”

“It was my vain hope, Sir. Garlic bread?”

“Absolutely. Grab a couple of mugs and pour out that coke. Guess you got that for the caffeine to keep us going.”

“Yeah. Saves time on endless coffee and tea trips.”

“Maybe for a young lad like you, this is gonna go right through me. I’ll be up and down for a pee like a bloody yo-yo.”

“You’re not that old, are you?” Hathaway asked as he dragged his chair over the Lewis desk and opened the garlic bread, pushing it to an obviously hungry Lewis. Hathaway, himself, began on the meat feast pizza, eating a slice before pouring the drinks. He picked up Lewis’ notes on Barton while he ate a second slice.

“I see you were trying to actually trace connections from one to the next here. Makes sense.”

“Aye. Oi! Leave me some of that meat feast! But then I decided we can’t really start to do that ’til we interviewed the friends, relations, neighbours and professional agencies involved with each one. Then we can map out connections. Obviously, some of them will have the same dealer, but not all, that’s for bloody certain, which is what makes this such a mystery.”

“You think this is a real mystery, too, don’t you? We didn’t really talk after Harwell, did we?”

Lewis sighed sadly. He didn’t really want to go there, and he’d seen at the time that James had wanted to shut it all out and pretend it hadn’t happened, either Robbie’s strange friend from the past or that... thing taking him hostage. However, from the earnest look on James face, he wanted to at least acknowledge it now, if nothing else. And he was obviously genuinely curious, and as his sergeant he had to know all possibilities his inspector was considering. 

“You didn’t want to, did you?” he answered carefully. “And we know me, I’m not good at talking at the best of times, let alone... blowing my own trumpet. Speaking as your superior, you accidentally found out more than you needed to know and have been duly informed and a note is appended on your file for those in the know that need to know.”

“I’ll pretend I understand that.”

“As for... us. I reckoned you were uncomfortable with it.”

“Or turned on,” James said dryly. “A spy.”

“I’m not a spy. More a sleeper. They need people in situ, as it were. Police, paramedics, fire service, we’re as much to find... stuff by accident, and its good to have people who know what to do, where to go, how to deal with it.”

“Okay. But do you?”

“It’s a possibility I can’t ignore James. Laura said unknown chemical chains and viral components. Why? How? But my main motive is these poor people are being killed because the killer reckons no one cares. And he was right, wasn’t he? Apart from Laura.”

James reached out and put his hand over Lewis’, who was trying to control an angry shake. “We care Robbie. We care. And we will find out who it is, and why, and...” James swallowed, “what.”

Lewis squeezed James’ hand and nodded towards the five boards. “Seems insurmountable though.”

“We will figure it out.” James said firmly.

Lewis looked at him fondly, and then said, “Do you want that bit of garlic bread?”

Hathaway smiled, “Help yourself.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a scene in this chapter with a pretty nasty discription of a body, something you would see in canon, but not smell. So you may wish to skip the rest of the scene after Hathaway kicks in the door.

Three days later Lewis was awoken by his phone at just before five in the morning. He woke, heart in his mouth, as he was off rota for the duration of this investigation. Innocent had begun to agree with him at how big this might be and had obviously been able to square it with the Chief Constable, if not Accounts, as he had been left with very little other in the way of cases, but neither had he been given any authority to use the DCs, uniform or tech. Liase with Drugs was about as much help as Innocent could or would offer.

So, with trepidation, he answered his phone. Lyn’s due date was, of course, mere weeks away.

However, it was Laura Hobson, ringing him on his personal phone.

“Lewis. We have another one.”

“What?”

“I asked for you, but the officer’s young, and seemed reluctant to call an inspector out this early for what looks to be an accidental or deliberate overdose of a junkie.”

“But it’s not?” Lewis’ voice was heavy and thick with sleep. He was gruff and far more Geordie. “Where?”

“It’s spread. I’m up on the Rose Hill Estate. Andrew’s Lane. No 34.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Will it be just... you?”

“Yes, let one of us sleep, for God’s sake.”

“You’re... alone, then?”

“Stop fishing, Laura! Yes, I’m alone. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Sorry. It’s not nice here, you know. This cont...stable reckons I’m making a fuss over nothing, I can tell. It’s not pretty Robbie.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen.” Lewis hung up and turned his mind to dressing.

*

In fact, he was there in less than ten, having forgone a shave and a suit for just pulling on his jeans and a sweater and brushing his teeth. His hair, he had not brushed.

There were too bodies, one on a battered red sofa, who had died instantly, and her friend, who had called the ambulance but had died while speaking to South Central’s Call Centre. The girls were sixteen and seventeen, and had been smoking the heroin, if the tin foil and burnt matches on the coffee table had been anything to go by. Lewis hated this more than anything, the death of a child, and his book, anyone under twenty-five, sometimes even older, was a wee kid. What age was that to be doing hard drugs, it was no age to be experimenting with drink or a bit of dope. He said so to Hobson.

“It happens. You know it does.”

“Who owns the house?” Lewis turned to the young uniformed officer who had arrived at the call of the paramedics. He was ashamed and a little afraid. He was on his probationary two years and should have checked when the pathologist insisted he call this Inspector that these symptoms had been flagged.

“It’s owned by a Mr. And Mrs. McCrimmon. From the student card and driver’s licence in both girls’ purses, they are their daughters. A Dorothy and Bernice, seventeen and nineteen, one doing a hair and beauty course at the college, the older one I don’t know, although there is a swipe card that has TK Maxx’s logo on it.”

“She probably works there then, or is it just your average card for points and that?”

“No, it’s a clock-in card.”

“Sure?”

“Yes Sir.”

“And where are the poor lasses’ parents then, eh?"

“Dunno Sir.”

“Dunno Sir. Well, find out Tyler, find out.”

“Right Sir, and how do I...”

“Call control. Maybe they have them on record. Else, use your initiative lad, and ask the neighbours.”

“Right. But Sir, it’s half past five in the morning.”

“You think the neighbours are still asleep with an ambulance, a patrol car and three more cars parked outside, one with flashing blues and twos coming in?”

“Well...”

“Ask them. Get them found and told before this ends up on the bloody news or internet! Chrissake, give me strength. Finished Laura?”

“All I can here, Robbie. Definitely same unknown cut. And our first to have both died.”

“Sisters.”

“What?”

“They’re sisters Doctor.”

“Your point being?”

“You wanted genetics as well as toxicology on the one who died late. Well, these are related, unlike the survivors. Just pointing out the obvious.”

Hobson looked thoughtfully at Lewis. “You’re right. There might be hundreds exposed to this viral-chemical and living.”

Lewis shrugged. “Take a lot of working through.”

“Well, I do have a degree in medicine, another in forensic science. You leave it to me.”

The pathologist and detective grinned at one another. A lead.

“Sir,” PC Tyler interrupted the moment of small triumph in the miserable, dark situation of two beautiful young girls stopped dead from a bit of experimentation.

“What now?” Lewis turned on the young officer.

“The parents are in Crete. Or it could be Cyprus. Next door wasn’t sure.”

“Well, get on to it, the Border Agency will have a record of their passports.”

“Sir!”

“Kids these days, eh?” Lewis said, smiling at Laura as the probationary constable left the room to let in forensics and the private ambulance crew, both of who were arriving on Lewis’ say so.

“I’m sure once he’s through his probation he’ll make a valuable contribution to the collation of data somewhere indoors.”

“Aye. He’ll be good at answering the phone and looking at a monitor too. Need me at the PM?”

“Up to you. Might be interesting to compare any difference responses to the drug, considering the familial connection.”

“I’ve leave that to you. E-mail me and James the results as soon as you have them, and any other actions you need.”

Lewis spent some minutes talking to the senior SOCO, before tasking another officer at Kidlington Control with the job of finding where the parents were on holiday and getting the appropriate foreign police to inform then and the Embassy or consulate informed to provide the poor people support and a flight home to identify both their kids. Poor sods.

*

Lewis got no more sleep. It was nearly seven when he got home, and had only enough time to shower, shave and put on a suit and clean shirt before he was back on his way to the station.

Hathaway took one look at the face, which unbeknown to Lewis, his sergeant had always thought of as his ‘snarly feed-me face’, long before he knew him well enough to even admire, respect and fancy his boss, let alone fall headlong deep in love with him, and said,

“I’ll get us some breakfast Sir.”

“That’ll be nice. Beats me how you always know when I’ve not had the time.”

“That would be telling,” Hathaway replied with a little smirk.

“There’s a reason, you know.”

Hathaway just looked at Lewis with a face full of inquiry but said nothing.

“Two more victims to this agent. Sisters. Wee bits of lasses, seventeen and nineteen.”

“Both dead?”

“Yes.”

“That’s new.”

“Yeah, and I bet it’s not a coincidence that they’re related either.”

“No Sir. I’ll get your breakfast.”

“Wait.”

“Sir?”

“We’ll go together, get something in a cafe. The canteen just isn’t the same since they subcontracted it out. Changes bloody hands every time my back is turned, too. I want a proper full English not some bacon panini or what-have-you, I’ve been up since the crack of dawn.”

“Fine.”

“Then it’s on to Brookes. More courtesy and diplomacy, and then we can interview the friends and neighbours of our Brookes victims.”

“Yes Sir.”

*

The Dean of the New University, a large, florid man, who perhaps in term time wore a suit – he certainly did not look at home without one as his armour – was dressed in pale chinos and a loud patterned shirt that perhaps had seen good days some thirty years ago, was rather flustered by the police’s interest in what he assumed were sad, tragic, but unimportant in the greater scheme of things, mere drug overdoses of three of the university’s many, many students with problems. He was also a little confused by Lewis’ asking for permission to interview the residents of several Halls, along with the friends of the victims.

“We have no Proctors or Great Tradition here,” he said, slightly sarcastically, once he realised the reason for the courtesy, “for you to trounce,” he added even more wryly, gathering what Lewis was also saying about the reasons for the investigations. However, “Our students are all adults – well, in the eyes of the law, of course. Besides, most of out Halls are now empty, or at least empty of our students. Some, of course, are full to the rafters with language school students. Now, they are children.” He sighed and took his black-rimmed glasses from his face and wiped his forehead and bridge of his nose with a tissue. “Our bread and butter, naturally. We none could survive without their money to fund much of our actually academic work these days.”

The Dean went on to refer them to the Housing Office, a long trek across the Gypsy Lane campus from his own office. Gypsy Lane, once laid out neatly in grand, ugly confident style in the nineteen sixties as a Polytechnic had lost much of its quads and green spaces to new buildings from the last five or so years, shining, white towers among their grey, squatter, older cousins. Through the occasional gaps in the architecture one could see, on a clear August day such as the hot one the detectives found themselves in, the shimmering Dreaming Spires of the older university in the valley.

A young woman in the university’s housing office found the addresses and the names of the parents of the three victims, and the boyfriend of one of the girls who was also possibly a user and a survivor. At least he had originally called in her death and been in a state when the paramedics and uniform had arrived. The young housing officer, a short, slender woman with an elfin cut of baby fine blonde hair and a flower print dress and crochet-knit cardigan over unlaced purple DMs, showed more than a little concern and apprehension for the boyfriend, and for the friends and neighbours of the victims. Because of this, she insisted she make a call to Student Services and ask their opinion and advice on whether she should given the police officers their home addresses, phone numbers, mobiles numbers and e-mail addresses. From the call, it was obvious that the counsellor wished to see them. Lewis rolled his eyes at Hathaway at all the red tape and buck passing.

They were given an appointment for an hour’s time, so following finding the main refectory open and having a cup of tea and a bar of chocolate and a mug of hot chocolate and cup cake respectively, it was across the main road and over to Headington Hill House Campus and Headington Hill Hall and the Helena Kennedy Student Services. Fortunately, the building that housed the Student Services, and also the Student Union, that was noisily undergoing a refit during the long summer recess, was the building nearest the entrance.

Headington Hill Hall itself lay further down the hill, set in its glorious laid out gardens, overlooking the parklands and down into the bowl of the city with its mediaeval spires and towers and the winding rivers through the meadows of the older, more globally recognised university colleges. The Hall had once, back in the seventies and eighties, been jokingly known as the largest, grandest, most expensive council house in the country. Robert Maxwell, once a rival to the Murdoch Empire in Britain, with his control of newspapers, publishing, and public opinion, had rented it from Oxford City Council. Subject to a succession of scandals, he had apparently committed suicide, drowning himself from his yacht in the Med. Lewis smiled to himself as they looked down the driveway to the Hall, remembering Morse’s suggestive, acerbic, sarcastic, comments at the time, pointing out to Lewis back then that a certain well known, entertaining, fat, tramp who had borne a more than passing resemblance to the media mogul had vanished from Bonn Square at about the same time as the man had supposedly fallen of his yacht. It had made Lewis smile at the time.

In fact, he had even been to the Hall with Morse during the Maxwell occupation, a long time ago now. Not that either men had met the powerful man. A girl had gone missing, Morse had assumed murdered by her boyfriend. She had worked at the Hall part time, in the kitchens. Murder had obviously been feared by Strange, and added to Morse’s certainty. Lewis had never been sure, and had grown less so as he had questioned the staff. Her boyfriend, a gardener at the Hall, had been even arrested, when she had turned up in London, walking into a police station following a call from her sister (Lewis had earlier visited the sister following her boyfriend’s arrest at Morse’s insistence) to say she was alive and well. She had been pregnant, and too ashamed to go home to family or boyfriend. She had gone to London with money her boyfriend had stolen for her to have an abortion but had changed her mind. Morse had given the boy a stern talking to, a caution for the theft, but did not charge him. Instead, the young man had joined his girlfriend in London, where they married.

Funny how memories pop into your head, Lewis mused now, as he stared out of the counsellor’s office window into the parkland. Hathaway sat, head bowed, deep in thought. He had wanted to explore the Cowley Road area, its victims, families and friends first, he felt it was the best place to find the hidden universal connection between them, to why they had died, and many others did not.

They had been given coffee and a plate of Nice biscuits whilst the counsellor, Chris Bone, a skinny, tall, middle aged man with a balding head, rimless spectacles, a threadbare green v-necked jersey and jeans, had gone to phone the boyfriend, Jack Benson, in private.

Bone came rushing back into his office, looking flustered.

“He’s not answering his phone. Nor the house phone. He’s in a shared house in Divinity. I managed to speak to one of his housemates at his family home. Nobody has heard from him for weeks, although they are all away with their families or working in their hometowns for the summer. ’Though they have all extended their let for another year. I haven’t been able to get hold of his family, but I understand they are estranged.” He took a deep breath at looked at the inspector and sergeant, spreading his hands helplessly.

“Do you have a set of the house keys?” Hathaway asked, placing his mug precisely on the desk on top of the empty biscuit plate, before standing.

“No. You’ll need Housing. I’ll give Linda a call back and get her to meet you in the main lobby of Gypsy Lane.”

“Thank you,” Hathaway said. 

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about though,” Lewis reassured Bone. He looked unconvinced.

“At least it’s keeping us fit,” Lewis remarked to Hathaway as they trekked back up the hill to the main road and the Gypsy Lane Campus and their car.

“In the way running in a sauna does, do you mean?” Hathaway retorted, looking very red.

Although, not as red and hot as Lewis felt. “Yeah. Exactly what I mean,” he puffed back.

*

The key got them into the five bedroom, two reception rooms, Victorian terraced town house. It was a little worst for wear after generations of mixed student sharing going back decades. As soon as Lewis and Hathaway were stood on the dirty, pockmarked black and white tiled checker patterned floor they could smell It.

It was the smell of decay, of warm, rotting flesh. Of faeces and stale urine. Ammonia. The smell of death.

They immediately began to run from room to room, separating to search the house more quickly, efficiently and thoroughly, in as little as time as possible. Hathaway kept trying to hold his breath, and with each deep breath he was forced to take, he gagged. He soon covered his hand with his handkerchief, wanting to take whiffs of his smelling salts but having no time. For Lewis, who had dealt with the smell of ancient death many times, in uniform and in CID, settled for covering his nose and mouth with his hand.

It was Hathaway who found it, or presumed so, behind a locked door on the third landing. The smell was so strong it was overpowering. He rattled the door, then shoved at his with his shoulder, yelling for his boss. Finally he settled on kicking it, once he realised it was bolted and not locked. A couple of heavy booted kicks to where Hathaway judged the bolt to be the other side of the door and the door flew open with the ripping of screws and the warping of the doorframe.

“Sir!” he called. “Sir! In here!”

As he entered bile rose to his mouth and he forced himself to swallow it, covering his mouth and nose once again with his hanky.

“Shit!” he said, taking in the body, in a state of considerable decay and decomposition, considering the boy had not been heard of for over two weeks and the thirty plus degrees Celsius temperatures Oxford had been experiencing over the last week or so. The room was buzzing with flies and the corpse crawling with maggots.

“Yup,” Lewis said behind him, gently putting a comforting arm on Hathaway’s back. “That’s the room with the smell. Go outside lad and call this in. Have a smoke and wait for everyone. I’ll just take a quick look around.”

“Sir, I...”

“Go on James, there’s no point us both here, we’d compromise the crime scene.”

“Thank you Sir.”

*

An hour later Lewis stood behind Dr Hobson as she examined the poor boy’s body stretched across his bed. Everyone now, including the pathologist and Lewis, wore protective masks.

“Well? Laura, you’re taking forever man. Is it another one?”

“No. You’ll observe no discolouration of the eyeballs and no crusted yellow bile about the mouth and nose. I would have thought you’d also observed the complete lack of paraphernalia for smoking or injecting heroin but rather; this!” Hobson picked up a bottle of prescribed sleeping tablets with her gloved hand. “And this.” She pointed to the empty bottle of gin as she replaced the pill bottle on the desk that was beside the bed in the small student room.

“I’ve got eyes. I just needed to be sure.”

“No,” Hobson confirmed. “No sign of anything. However, he was exposed to the same drug that killed his girlfriend and survived that, about two weeks ago. And that, by the way, is roughly how long the boy has been dead. Poor sausage.”

“Does that explain the maggots?” Hathaway asked from the doorway. He was leaning on its frame, looking pale and wan and sick.

“That and the heat. Yes.”

“Poor bugger,” said Lewis.

“But not one of ours Sir. Just another unfortunate suicide. Can’t we just leave this to uniform?” He was aware that he was whining like a small, demanding child, but having so recently contemplated suicide again for the first time since he was a teenager in his first year up at Cambridge, Hathaway knew he wasn’t handling this scene very well. That, and the smell and sight of the corpse, of course.

“Right,” Lewis said, looking at James’ white face and even whiter knuckles as he gripped his plastic gloves. “Of course.” He sighed. “We do have enough to do as it is.” He began to walk away towards the door.

“Lewis,” Hobson called as he reached the doorway and Hathaway.

“Yes?”

“Do I have your permission for a full tox screen and genetic profiling on him? Maybe I can find some reasons to why he, at least, survived that can start to point to why the others died.”

“Whatever you need Laura.”

“Only Innocent wouldn’t approve the funding on the genetic fingerprinting and profiling of...” Hobson began.

“I’ll talk to her. I’ll get your funding,” Lewis promised, before following Hathaway down the narrow staircase and out.

*

As they drove away Lewis decided they needed a break before starting to find and interview all the ‘survivors’, that is, the partners or friends who had died while sharing the same sourced drug. His plan to begin with Brookes to appease Innocent had spectacularly failed, although it had led them to that poor lad. Estranged, the counsellor said, from his family. Lewis felt for that family now, no doubt torturing themselves with self-blame and guilt along with grief and remorse.

They had been at this nearly a week now, and although poor James had been hard at work ploughing through names, addresses, stats on age, gender and location, as well as contacting and making up a file of useful contacts for future interviews, he really was making little progress. Nor, it seemed, was Hobson, with her forensic medical-sciency bit! He really must have a word with Innocent about the funding. This was looking like mass murder, but they needed to be sure and they needed to know how these people were dying. Just because the poor things had an addiction problem, that no doubt stemmed from other deep problems, and were killing themselves slowly, was no excuse to not care, certainly not to investigate. Without favour or affection, wasn’t it?

He’d even let Innocent side-track from this Brookes route of investigation for a couple of days, with her insistence that he be the one to clear up the Congressman’s son, first liasing with Balliol, then Keble. It had been stupid, really, to start at Brookes, he didn’t really know what he had been thinking of! Apart from the fact the summer seemed to be creeping up on him so fast. Sometimes he felt his head was stuck in May, finding poor James, raped and beaten, drugged and half-aware, on his doorstep.

Time was moving too fast!

“We can always ring them,” James said, calling him out of his deep thoughts. It took Lewis a moment to recall what he had just said. James was glancing at the lists of the three Brookes’ victims’ flat and housemates and friends that Linda and Chris had given him. “Or even e-mail,” James added.

“Yeah. Later.” Damn, he didn’t mean to sound so dismissive! Lewis pulled his car up outside the first coffee place he came to on the Cowley Road after turning right at the bottom of Divinity. “I’m hungry.” He knew James would be, he’d told him a week ago; the tablets he’d been put on were making him hungry. Still not much of the lad, but at least he didn’t look close to starvation as he had in the last few months, following the attack.

It was a Turkish place, although most of the cliental were Pakistani and Bangladeshi. Apart from the ginger convert behind the counter, with his red beard and topi, dressed in three-quarter length grey shalwar, who served them, they were the only white men in there. There were no women, naturally. Lewis appeared not to notice, Hathaway tried not too.

“I’m suddenly starved. Are you?” Lewis said, the whiff of the roasted, spiced meats and vegetables assaulting his nostrils as a colourful array of salads and mezes and dips under the glass display attacked his eyes.

Hathaway thought about it. Now he was out of that house, away from the stench of the two-week-old corpse in a musty, humid, shut up, airless house... He looked at all the exotic food on display.

“Yeah. I am. But then, these days, I’m always ravenous at the moment.”

“Shit. Yeah, I know. Maybe you should speak to your doc about it. You weren’t last time, were you? Mind you, there’s nothing of you, lad.”

“That can’t last forever, you know. I must ask you, will you love me when I’m fat Sir?”

“Always,” Lewis said flippantly, after all, he doubted James was serious, and a conversation about true feelings was best not done surrounded by Muslim men in a cafe. “So then, what do you fancy?”

“Are you paying Sir?”

Lewis tipped an imaginary hat, “This is an unofficial break, James lad. You are no longer my bagman for a while. Look, I’m taken my boss’ hat off.”

James snorted. “Um, shall we get some of everything to share? It all looks so nice and I’m so hungry, which is weird...”

“Actually, it sort of happens, the sight of a death like that, you feel so sick to start, and then you’re ravenous. Compensation, maybe?”

In they end they ate a kofti kebab each, with fried potatoes in tomato sauce, chick peas, salad, broad beans in garlic, tomatoes and onions, a garlicky yoghurt sauce, all washed down with, for Hathaway, a strong, sweet black Turkish coffee, and for Lewis, tea.

“What now Sir?” Hathaway asked, replete, leaning back in his chair, wishing he could surreptitiously loosen his belt.

“I think your suggestion.”

“Which one?”

“The survivors. Do you have the lists?”

“Timelines by chronological order, by area, by age and gender, even by ethnicity and class. Plus another one with who had a partner, which survived them. All on the laptop.”

“Good. Good. Where first?”

“I think... Wood Farm. Then Barton.”

“Right. But I’ve taken my hat off James, so let’s talk about you.”

“Me?”

“You. You’ve been working flat out.”

“We both have Sir.”

“You more, all that gathering and collating, e-mailing and phoning. You were seeing the GP every other day. There’s been no time for that. I heard you this morning, on the phone, telling someone you can’t make band practice. And we don’t get together... you, know... socially. It’s just straight back to out own flats when we can’t do no more and crash.”

“I’m fine Sir, really. It seems cruel to say so, but I’m enjoying it. I really am. All this research and data entry and compilation, it’s almost like being back at university.”

“Well, if you’re enjoying it so much...” Lewis sighed. He really didn’t know if James was okay. Whether he was being fatuous or honest. Throwing himself into an all-absorbing investigation could be a good distraction from what had happened – from all that had happened, after all, it wasn’t that long ago someone broke into Hathaway’s flat, either! – but he could be just deflecting his concern for him. Just when he felt he could read James, he felt like the book was closed.

James looked quizzically at the sigh, so Lewis said, “Still no closer to unravelling this tangled web, are we?”

"’Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.’ Don’t worry Sir, we will get there.”

“Not more bloody Shakespeare. Not on this case, James, this isn’t bloody Oxford Oxford, this is real life Oxford.”

“Are you not allowed to like Shakespeare when you’re poor and working class Sir? I must say, I’m disappointed in you. How else would I have got my scholarship, without knowing and loving the classics? But, no, it’s actually Walter Scott.” 

Lewis gave him a look of exasperated fondness. “You, in the car and find where we’re going to. I’ll pay.”

“Can we get some of those sticky pastries to go, too?"

“Now you’re taking diabolical liberties Sergeant. Car. Now.”

But Lewis got the pastries, all the same.

*

Meanwhile, in the centre of Oxford, in Oxford Gown, as it were, far from Oxford Town in time and space and meaning, Sebastian left the Examination Schools, sub fusc. Due to the tragic death of his brother, Peter, it had been arranged for him to sit his examinations late, taking different papers to his fellow students. This was despite his already having been awarded his Masters Degree. It had been a mere formality; he had already been guaranteed his First and his place as a Fellow practically since he had set foot in college. He was a brilliant biochemist of the first order.

“How did it go?” an older man, in the gown of a fellow, fell into step with him as Seb walked up the High.

“Fine.”

“How is the research going?”

“I’m concerned Professor. A student died.”

“The American junkie. He was a waste of space. Don’t let it trouble you. I can see how it would upset you, your brother dying like that... Now, there was a waste. I understand he was a brilliant physicist?”

“No, it’s not...” Francesca’s voice suddenly popped into his memory,

“Above all, tell no one. No one can know Sebastian, no one. Do you understand? Your funding and supplies will be cut. You might even be sent down. The police informed, even.”

“Perhaps it is,” he said instead, although this in itself was odd. Sebastian never showed feelings, never admitted to any, if he could help it.

“Might I buy you something to eat? I’m sure you skipped your lunch? I’ve been talking to a colleague in the States about your research into addiction. He’s working with some of his students on some very similar research paths.”

“Copying?"

“Not at all. Sympathetic resonance, shall we say? Very important work. We can discuss it over lunch.”

“Lunch would be nice.”

They crossed the road to the Queen’s Lane Coffee House, long and short black gowns flapping behind them in the sudden, very welcome, breeze.


	6. Chapter 6

Three more days went by. Lewis spent a great deal of time staring at the incident boards and all the timelines, lists and flow charts Hathaway had compiled on the laptop. Hathaway was beginning to worry that Lewis was getting a little obsessive. At least now, thanks to Lewis’ persistence, warnings about heroin being cut with some unknown, potentially lethal, substance were going out through agencies and charities that worked with addicts and their families. However, there were no posters and information on the threat through the NHS GPs and A&E, and most certainly no warnings through the local media, as there had been a news blackout. From what Hathaway could gather, it went beyond the usual police blackout to a D-notice, but he didn’t ask and Lewis didn’t tell him. All Lewis said was that he didn’t want the person or persons unknown doing the ‘experimentation’, as he called it, warned. Hathaway had decided it was a bit presumptive, it could still be any old crap that was having an unknown reaction in some that a dealer used as a white powder to cut with the heroin to maximise profit.

Hathaway had not pointed this out, nor had he shared his thoughts concerning a religious nut on a mad cleansing spree, distributing through a charity. If he had, he was sure that Lewis would not give it much credence, so hell bent on this experimentation angle. It also sounded a bit far-fetched to Hathaway himself if he were to say it out loud. Others obviously took Lewis’ presumption of experimentation seriously, as the day before he had gone to London for the day for a meeting. With whom, and where, he did not share, and Hathaway did not ask.

Whatever and whoever Lewis had seen had obviously agreed to meet the short fall in funding that Innocent and Hobson could not get from the Thames Valley Police or from the Home Office Forensic Pathology. Lewis was currently on the phone to Hobson, informing her he had managed to get her the funding and facilities for full genetic fingerprinting and mapping for all thirty-three victims and the suicide, although it was now two suicides, as the widow from one of the Barton cases had killed herself soon after her release from the Warnford. Hathaway had yet to tell Lewis that since his return from London.

Hathaway did mean to eavesdrop as Lewis talked to Hobson on the phone, but from Lewis’ end of the call he gathered that Hobson was lamenting on the fact that genetic samples from the several survivors apart from the suicides, would not be available. Well, obviously the doctor had informed him of the second suicide, which saved him the bother, but the mood his boss was in, he no doubt was going to get flak for that. Hathaway had noticed that, apart from a little solicitous behaviour that everyone in the station seemed to have since May, Lewis went out of his way, mostly, to behave as his boss. No favours. And Himself was In A Mood.

Still, he might be able to help Hobson, and maybe get some praise from Lewis to negate the impact of not keeping him up to speed with all developments the day before. It might be a little unethical, though. Not illegal, certainly, not quite an abuse of power, but not entirely ethical either. And only possible at all because Hathaway now had help, even if Innocent wasn’t aware of it. He was in two minds whether to tell Lewis, either.

*

Two days previously, as Lewis attended a meeting with the American boy’s parents, who had just arrived from the States to claim their son’s body, Hathaway had looked up from his desk to see DC Sophie Mercer leaning on the door way, her dress impossibly short. Perhaps, Hathaway mused with a curl of his lip of disapproval, it was meant to be worn over leggings or jeans. Apart from Madge, always sensible in trousers or jeans, Sophie was the only woman in Lewis’ team. The dress was not only exceedingly short; it was low cut with shoestring straps. Hathaway was probably the only person in the office not to appreciate it, he mused. But he also remembered the speculative looks on his arse in his tight jeans in the Communion before he met Sergei Rochenckov and It happened. He was also a man, and he knew how men couldn’t help to look. He tried to keep his disapproval from his voice as he asked,

“Can I help you Mercer?”

“It’s more that I can help you Sarge.”

For one alarming moment Hathaway worried that Sophie was coming on to him. But no, she was actually too naive to realise the impact her dress was having on her colleagues.

“In what way? You’d better come in. And shut the door.”

“Have I done something wrong?” she asked nervously, obviously catching his tone.

“No, not really,” Hathaway said, not quite sure how to phrase his discomfort on the extreme shortness of the dress without sounded either sexist or like a pompous prig. Or like a failed Catholic priest, his subconscious suddenly sneered at him. He pulled himself together. “What did you mean, help?”

“Well, I know the super doesn’t want us on this, money and that, but cold case burglaries can always wait, can’t they? They’re not going anywhere and no one really expects any progress, do they?”

“I thought I’d tasked you with those muggings of tourists last week?”

“Yeah, well... “ Mercer looked out of the window and then back at Hathaway. “Mo and I swapped – um DC Ngoti I mean. He spent days on CCTV for me. He’s making the arrest for me now.”

“Why wasn’t I informed?”

“Have you checked your in-box?”

“Oh.” Hathaway checked his screen, and with a click of the mouse, located the appropriate e-mail from Ngoti. “Here it is. Good work. Should have seen it, only I’ve been so busy...”

“I know Sarge.” Sophie tapped one of the incident boards. “So, what can I do to help? I can get away with doing a couple of hours a day for you, and still get my assigned stuff done, I reckon.”

Inwardly, Hathaway sighed a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you Sophie. First, can you ring these Brookes students? It’s been on my to-do list for three days now. I need to know victims’ friends, habits, where they may have scored, who else knew that they used, what pubs, clubs, cafes, bars, gyms, parks and other venue that they may have frequented. That sort of thing.”

“Got ya,” Sophie said, picking up the list from the printer that Hathaway had just printed for her. As she bent over to retrieve the list Hathaway caught a flash of frilly pink and white pants. He really did need to say something about appropriate dress in CID. Apart from anything else, Innocent would be horrified at one of her officers flashing her underwear!

“Um, Sophie?”

“Yes Sarge?”

“I appreciate it is a bloody hot day, but don’t you think that dress is more appropriate for a club, or a festival maybe. Or a beach. But it’s not really CID approved, is it? Apart from anything else, it is hardly practical, where do you put everything?”

Sophie just looked blankly at him with confusion.

“Warrant card. Phone. Car keys. Baton. Cuffs. Notebook. Airwaves. Evidence bags. Plastic gloves. Shall I go on?”

“Oh! Right! In my bag and my jeans pockets.”

“Jeans? What jeans?”

Mercer giggled nervously, as if suddenly realising how she looked to the sergeant. “Oh yeah. They’re drying out. I had to arrest some little buggers this morning, kids of about ten or eleven, they was vandalising the bus shelter near my house. One of them pissed on my jeans out of spite. Pissed on Uniform’s shoes too. I rinsed them out and washed them in a bit of soap. They’re drying in the ladies, sort of hanging out of the window.”

Ah, it was a top not a dress! “I hope you charged for the jeans, too, then,” he said dryly. He went on, “But go and borrow a pair of women’s trousers from uniform, until they are dry. I’m sure you have nice legs Mercer, I wouldn’t know,” Hathaway said even more dryly than before, “but I’m sure everyone else here does know, and has more than noticed. Your legs might be a little distracting.”

Mercer looked down at her legs and blushed a little, her cheeks flushing pink on her cheeks under her eyes. She pushed her blonde hair back into its pony tail in a nervous gesture before saying, “Oh yeah. I didn’t think. I’ve not even shaved them recently, which is a bit of a bugger. I’ll go and see if they’re dry now Sarge. Then I’ll get stuck into these.” She waved the Brookes list at him.

“Thanks Sophie.”

Mercer was as good as her word, and by the end of the day, not only had she got into them and had a list of places in Headington and Cowley Road areas that all three victims had in common but she had put back on her jeans. The Cowley Road ones matched places frequented by other victims and were duly placed with a higher rating on the virtual map of locations and venues that Hathaway was compiling.

Not only that, Mercer had obviously had a word with DC Mohammed Ngoti, whom she may or may not have been dating, Hathaway wasn’t exactly sure as Ngoti was such a devout, uptight boy, he made Hathaway look relaxed, even the younger PC Hathaway, straight from the Seminary via Hendon and Sulhamstead. Just before Lewis had returned from his difficult meeting with the grief-stricken and shocked parents, dealing at home also with political fall-out resulting from what had killed their son, Ngoti had come into Lewis’ office and made the same offer as Mercer to Hathaway. Hathaway tasked him with the laborious, difficult, and boring challenge of finding the victims on any CCTV image he could find during the hours and days before each and every one of their deaths. But Ngoti did love CCTV work.

*

And now, two days on, with Ngoti and Mercer squeezing in the odd hour or two for Lewis’ investigation, Hathaway got up and left Lewis, still placating Hobson, to find the two DCs. He asked them if they could go out and about to the neighbourhoods of the survivors and conduct ‘random stop and searches’ where, no doubt they would find a small about of heroin or at least grass, for personal use, and so could arrest them, bring them in, process them, including taking their DNA samples, before releasing them under caution, or even just a stern warning.

Then to get the DNA to Hobson as soon as possible, sooner would be better.

*

“Where have you been?” Lewis demanded as Hathaway slipped back into his seat.

“Attempting to procure the required DNA samples for the good doctor Sir,” he replied with his politest tones, wearing his most neutral mask on his face.

“Eh? What? I’ve got a bone to pick with you lad. But first, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I couldn’t help overhearing that Hobson needs the survivors DNA for comparison. I’ve just tasked Mercer and Ngoti to pick them up for possession and process them. I know it’s not really...”

“No, it’s brilliant man. I think. But Innocent...”

“What the eye doesn’t see, Sir. They’re doing it as a favour. To you. In their own time. Sort of.” He did not mention all the other tasks they had done for him over the past two days. He went on, “And Sir, I never got the chance to tell you about the second suicide, you’ve not been here and your phone was switched off most of yesterday, and today I’ve just been chasing all the GPs and social workers who didn’t get back to us by e-mail.”

“When are Sophie and Mohammed going out then?”

“I don’t know Sir. Mercer said they’d squeeze into what they’re meant to be doing.”

“Only...”

“Only what Sir?”

“I had hoped to interview the families of the victims.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t want them to be too hostile to the police.”

“Sorry, I thought...”

“It’s okay James. Right, we’d better get on to it.”

“Where?”

Lewis grabbed one of his printouts of all Hathaway’s hard collation and plotting work. “I think – Barton first. Two widows and two widowers and a set of grief-stricken parents.”

“Okay.” Hathaway stood up again, and grabbed his jacket, following Lewis, still in his shirtsleeves, out of the office and the station. Lewis kindly slowed the pace to allow him a few quick puffs on half a cigarette as they walked across the car park to Lewis car.

*

As they drove over Magdalen Bridge, over the Plain and up Headington Hill Hathaway was silent, staring at the window, uncomfortable for the first time in years in a way he didn’t like. It had taken them sometime to get used to each other after that first case, and James was used to hiding his feelings and feeling uncomfortable so close to Lewis and so unable to touch, to tell him, afraid of rejection, ridicule and guilty at having such feelings. But he had grown comfortable with his own uncomfortable, unrequited love. Then he had been raped. And Lewis had told him his feelings. And the uncomfortable feeling had been about trust – how much did he trust Robbie Lewis with all he had kept hidden, how much did he trust him to respect his awkwardness and fear about touch.

The answer was with his life. His very soul.

That was why James hated this silence. He knew he should tell Lewis about Mercer and Ngoti and he going behind Innocent’s back. That was, he should explain about their offers, that they were working two to three hours a day for him on this investigation, that they had already done a lot more than make a few arrests to collect the DNA that Dr. Hobson needed. But this was him protecting him, and he did that gladly. 

Then there was this idea he had of a Christian or other charity that might be spreading the dangerous additive to the heroin. But it still felt stupid. But this was awful, it felt like Lewis knew he was withholding something and was angry. He was so tense and silent himself, focused on the road, turning his music up, playing very loud prog rock of his own youth.

“Oh hell!” Lewis suddenly exploded, making James jump. He thought it might be because the lights had just turned red at the crossroads by the Headington Parade shops.

“What?” he asked softly. Lewis was looking at him, gently, fondly. He realised he’d flinched at Lewis’ outburst.

“Oh lad. Sorry. I’m so keyed up. I hate secrets. It’s not as if you don’t know my other status.”

“Black ops for UNIT,” James whispered.

“Yup. Sorry. It’s where I was yesterday, at the Tower of London, meeting the new commander. Kate. Nice women, head screwed on the right way, not too keen to shoot first, bury the evidence and issue the D-notices. Prepared more to work with other agencies and not jump to conclusions.”

James had guessed something of the like. Now, emboldened by Lewis’ anger at himself for keeping secrets and what he had said, he said, “Might you be too? I know you’re not for one second saying it is... um... not from... here... but it might not be experimentation.”

“But the scale, the weird markers, new chemical chains, virus bits, Hobson thinks...”

“That might all be side effects. The person making and spreading it might just want to kill.”

“A mass serial killer. But so remote, it doesn’t really fit the profile of a psychopath, does it?”

“No, I mean the person might want to kill junkies.”

“Yeah, there is that, but there would be easier ways to do that with chemicals or viruses that already exist. Anthrax. Good old-fashioned cyanide even.”

“True. But I was thinking... no, forget it Sir.”

“What?” Lewis was negotiating the Green Road roundabout and turning into Barton.

“It’s okay. This is Oxford, England, not Oxford, Alabama.”

“Now you’ve got to tell me James!”

“Promise not to laugh?”

“Scouts honour. Tell me first, which road are we going to?”

“Um, Dawson Street. Two men who survived their girlfriends, one lives in a house with their son and daughter, so far still there, unlike the other cases, the other lives in one of the flats at the other end. John Yates, an unemployed teacher. Lost his job due to his addiction. He’s the father. And Mike Benton, a second hand car salesman, seems to hold down his business no problem, Grainger tells me he’s had run ins with him dealing in ringers. Both had wives who were the actual registered addicts.”

“Alright, how shall we do this? One each to start, just to introduce ourselves and say we’re now treating their partner’s death as possible murder. We can then talk to them at a later date in more detail, unless they want to talk now. Which one do you want?"

“I’ll take the teacher with the kids, if that’s alright Sir. I’m sure the used and stolen car dealer is more up your street.”

“Oi! Watch it!”

“I meant, of course, Sir, you have so many more years experience in both Uniform and CID than me.”

Lewis huffed in good-natured annoyance. “Alright,” he said, pulling up in front of a block of garages in between the blocks of flats and the terraced houses.

*

Lewis went off towards the flats behind the garages and Hathaway walked out into the street and down the road, past rows of terraces and semi detached houses built in the ugly, prefab style of the nineteen seventies, where architecture, style, and the basic use of bricks seemed to have become a forgotten art form in the British Isles. The numbering also seemed a little eccentric, and Hathaway found he had somehow walked past Yates’ house and had to double back. The heat was sweltering; the pavement shimmered in the unnatural heat wave. He felt suddenly exhausted and desperate for a drink as he approached the house, opening the metal gate, hanging precariously by one hinge. The scrub of grass needed cutting, the dry, brown and yellowing grasses standing over a foot tall, half dead in the sudden drought. At least, there was a hosepipe ban, despite the torrential rains of the previous two months of the summer. Buried in the grasses were two children’s scooters, one black, one pink, and a pink and white child’s bike with stabiliser wheels, along with a broken red and yellow trike.

As Hathaway approached the front door it was flung open and a man ran out, charging at Hathaway, yelling, and before he could react the man had started pummelling him with his fists, shouting something about TVs and kids.

Hathaway responding immediately, thankful for the training, as he didn’t need to think, and soon had the man subdued on the ground, with one arm behind pulled behind his back. Hathaway kept his knee in his back for good measure, which he wasn’t very happy about. The man was topless, sweaty and smelly, and his suit only recently dry-cleaned. It was one of the decent ones too.

“Police. Calm down.”

“What the fuck... Police? Get off me!”

“If you promise to calm down.”

“Yeah yeah. Sorry. I thought you were from the social come to take my kids away. They keep sending letters. Either that or the repo man. I’m in so much debt.”

Hathaway released him and stood up to see Lewis standing at the gate, looking as if he had been about to charge to his rescue. He shook his head slightly and held out his hand to help the man up. “No, CID. My suit is far to good for a debt collector and I’ve never met a social worker wearing one.”

“Sorry Officer. Seriously. Sorry. Please don’t arrest me, please, I can’t lose my kids, they’re all I have...”

Hathaway looked at him. He looked so exhausted but not stoned. He could hear the sounds of two children playing and splashing water in the back garden. Seven and four, a girl and a boy, according to the notes. He had been about to arrest Yates for assaulting a police officer, process him to get his DNA and release him with a warning, but changed his mind. There had been too many children taken into care as a result of the death of one addicted parent bringing the other to the Child and Family Team’s notice, putting them under pressure to act. Hathaway wasn’t sure taking children away from inadequate but loving parents was the best thing. He would have wanted to die rather than be in care, for all the things his father put him through due to his debts and desperate need to feed his addictions.

“We’ll say no more about it, this time. I’m here to talk to you about the death of your wife.”

“Judy? You weren’t interested at the time. Officer and doctor couldn’t wait to leave.”

“There have been developments, Sir. Can we go inside?”

“Who’s that then?”

“That’s my boss, Inspector Lewis. I’m Sergeant Hathaway. Might we come in?”

“Um. Sure. It’s a state.”

“Let’s make some tea and go into the back garden, yeah,” Lewis said, walking up the path. “Your wee kids shouldn’t be alone too long.”

“What’s this about?”

“We think now your wife, along with a lot of other addicts, might have been murdered Sir.”

“Shit. Shit. Oh my God.”

“He’s gonna...” Lewis began as Hathaway caught the man as he fell in a dead faint.

*

An hour and a half later they left, with the names of a couple of pubs and a cafe, along with a list of Judy Yates’ friends. John had been clean ever since his wife’s death, which he couldn’t believe, as he had tried so many times before. He hadn’t wanted to be addicted, had tried only to keep his wife company and had been struggling with cold turkey on and off ever since. But this time, and his GP couldn’t explain it; he had suffered no withdrawal symptoms. The only thing he could put it down to was the shock of the bereavement, the shock of seeing his wife die in front of his eyes, the absolute need to be there for his children. Hathaway had left his card, and Hobson’s number, with the promise, if needed, to speak for him with social services regarding his keeping his kids with support. He promised in return to visit Hobson and provide a DNA sample off the record.

For the rest of the afternoon Lewis appeared to be tense and angry. He had reprimanded James unnecessarily harshly for not calling him for assistance, which Hathaway thought an over reaction – the man was stressed, sick and out of condition and he had handled the situation to textbook standards.

None of the other bereaved spouses were as helpful. Benton had not been in his flat, and not at his business premises in Worminghall either. No one had seen him for weeks.

One of the girlfriends had also managed to get clean in the weeks since her bereavement. But she was hostile and angry, having lost her children, and could not trust the two plain-clothes officers.

The parents of the young mixed race lad had little to offer in the way of help. They were still in deep shock and knew far less than they had thought they did about his whereabouts and who he had associated with, obviously. He hadn’t been attending chess club and the role-playing weekends like he had told them for years.

“This is not going to bloody work, is it?” Lewis suddenly said on the drive back from Worminghall.

“How do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” Lewis sounded angry. “Isn’t it bloody obvious?” he practically yelled as he pulled out aggressively in front of fast moving traffic on the London Road.

Hathaway flinched almost imperceptivity at the force of the anger. Lewis noticed and sighed.

“Sorry James, I didn’t mean to yell. But, come on, how long is this going to take? How many survivors and witnesses are going to cooperate after so long, after being told it was an overdose? They’re either addicts too, in shock like that poor wee lad’s parents, or many are probably just relieved that their other half is no longer suffering and stealing all the money to feed their habit.”

Hathaway thought a moment. “Yes, I suppose...” he murmured, thinking about the times he was home from school and the pantry was empty again until his father had a win on the horses. But for all the gambling debts and the mood swings and tempers caused by the alcohol, or the frightening DTs his Dad was suffering from when he finally left home for good, he sincerely doubted his Mum would want to be without her husband.

Lewis noticed the slightly wistful look. “Are you alright pet?”

“We’re at work Sir!” Hathaway replied, more sharply than he had intended.

“Yes. Suppose so. Question still stands lad, as your boss. Are you okay? Tired? Hungry? Hurt? Did that bastard hurt you? God, when I saw him go for you...”

Lewis had just exited the block of flats when he had looked up the road to see if James had been about or had already gone into Yates’ house when he saw the man rush at James, yelling and brandishing his fists. He had run as fast as he could, his own fists balling in a very unprofessional manner, one didn’t approach such a situation as another fighter but as one intent on calming any violence, preventing any escalation. He had reached the gates in time to see James handle himself and the situation perfectly well, but at the same time he hadn’t been able to get the image of James, on his doorstep, back in May, so bruised and beaten. He had to grip the gate to hold himself up, not just because he was out of breath running up hill in the heat, but also because he was shaking with the desire to protect James from any more harm.

“I was fine. Sir. The man was just stressed. Bereaved. Two young children, no money and no support, just threats to get his life together or they’d take him into care.”

“Could have charged him with assault, got his DNA.”

“And that would help his children, how Sir? Anyway, he’s going straight to Hobson to give her a sample.”

“Yeah. I know. Where to next then? It’s only just gone six, I reckon we can interview a few more and then you can collate any useful names or places on your charts and than while I get us a takeaway. Then we can call it a night.”

*

They went to Wood Farm. After interviewing two mothers, one an alcoholic who knew nothing of her son’s friends or habits, and one who had been left caring for her grandson who told them their daughter had not been anywhere except the support group for teen mums and the doctors in months and thought she was clean, they tried and failed to find the father and boyfriend who had supplied his girlfriend. After getting onto Kidlington records, the clerk on the phone soon got back to them with news of his death. The young lad had been found in a ditch beside the road between Greater and Blackbird Leys. Lewis got Hathaway to make a note for him to chase it down on the PNC and to see if it had flagged on HOLMES 2 as carrying the identifying marks he’d logged into it as they drove to their next witness. They had to climb four stories to get to another survivor, but the woman was drunk and hostile, her children having been taken into care after her boyfriend’s death.

“What is it with bloody social services? You’d think they’d be offering more support than this? The care budget must be going through the roof. It’s not as if the bloody care system is any good here, anyway. Look at all the cases and evidence Kingfisher is finding.”

Hathaway stared at Lewis, his face cold and blank. “At least we’re taking it seriously now, and making sure we find any evidence and take any child seriously.”

Lewis waited a minute for anything else, any mention of the past, but no. He decided again that James genuinely didn’t remember. “True,” he said. “Anyone else on the list?”

“The other block.” He pulled his notebook, full of scribbled names and addresses copied quickly in the car during the drive from Barton to Wood Farm “A Joseph Shaw. He’s the one married to the woman that had died hours later, the one found in an alley way.”

So in was down four flights of stairs, across the car park, a small play park for smaller children and toddlers, and a bit of scrubland, and up another four flight of stairs. Despite it now being nearly eight o’clock at night, it was still over twenty-five degrees Celsius. 

Shaw welcomed them politely, expressing shock at the fact his wife had been murdered rather than died as a result of complications due to heroin addiction. He himself had been addicted since he had been up at Oxford, Balliol, reading PPE, back in the seventies. He’d met his wife then, she had been at St. Hilda’s. Look where at it had got him. But since they had smoked together the batch that had killed her, he just didn’t want it anymore. No cold turkey, no actual conscious decision to stop, he just couldn’t face it, the thought made him queasy. It didn’t make sense,

Not that he wasn’t grateful, of course. He happily provided the policemen with the names and addresses of their two dealers and promised to ring Dr. Hobson to arrange a sample of his DNA for her.

“There’s got to be a connection,” Lewis said as they walked along the balcony walkway. “Three now who just got over an addiction to one of the most addictive things on the planet, with no side effects!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I frequently point out these stories were orginally made up for my daughter back in 2008-2010, and one of the things she wanted was re-occurring members of Lewis' team, hence DCs Mercer and Ngoti. Now, as some people have very kindly commented, I should be writing professionally. If I ever have the health and the time and the space to try to, I would love to use these characters in my own novels. That being said, I would very much appreciate if anyone feels so inclined (highly unlikely) to want to rehash them, please only do so with my permission. For those paying attention, Mercer and Ngoit have already featured heavily in Cold Summer and White :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The compulsory pretty Oxford Gown and Dreaming Spires locations, along with an equally pretty Victorian built psudo-Medieval convent :)

In the end they didn’t go back to the office, it being so late, but back to Lewis’ flat where he fried them some eggs and made chips while Hathaway inputted the new data; starting a new list of possible survivors to whatever the substance was that were now completely clean without any of the usual suffering of side effects of withdrawal; at Lewis’ insistence.

“Want some beer with this?” Lewis asked after he’d dished up and Hathaway had joined him at the kitchen table.

“Tea please. I’m not really supposed to drink on this anti-depressant.”

“Hasn’t stopped you before.”

“Well, I’m taking better care of myself. And you, as you would say, need my enormous brain in full working order.”

“Aye, I do that. And I need you well and taking care of yourself love. Can’t really tell you that though, can I?”

“Why not?”

“You’d ignore me!” Lewis made sure he kept his tone light and teasing. He quickly changed the subject, “Want ketchup?”

“No thank you.”

“Don’t you go curling your nose up at this. We’ve had far too many take-aways that are far worse than this, but we have been eating salads and that too. There’s still some of those Turkish pastries left for pudding too.”

“Good. I’m starved. I just don’t like ketchup and eggs together. I wasn’t criticising,” Hathaway replied, mouth around a chip dunked in egg yolk.

“I’d better e-mail Laura while I think of it.” Lewis got up and went to his desktop and quickly banged out his e-mail.

“Don’t you think it’s more likely coincidence?” Hathaway asked as Lewis re-joined him. “Seeing your loved one die horribly in front of you from the heroin might put you off for life. Purely psychological.”

“Maybe. But this is unknown stuff for what purpose? The spread is too random and weird to just be a cut to enlarge some supplier’s profit. So, what is it for? Maybe someone is on a mission to save people...”

“That’s a bit far fetched Sir.”

“Maybe. But maybe not. Tell me about your theory.”

“As I said, someone trying to cleanse – but according to your new theory, maybe save - Oxford’s heroin addicts. There is a charity run by some Anglican sisters; it’s called the Door. They’re much older than any other food bank and unlike others they’re not for short-term support through poverty, but work with the families of addicts and alcoholics, providing food and essentials and out-reach and a non-judgemental ear. Through this they often reach the addict or alcoholic and then can point them to the right agency to be helped. Then they offer workshops. Job interviews. CV writing. Basic literacy and numeracy if its needed, plus classes in job skills, woodwork, decorating, brick laying, electricians, plumbing, whoever is the latest volunteer to bring their skills.”

“All sounds good stuff. But what’s this to do with your theory?”

“Well, as far as I’m aware, and I’ve checked my facts to make sure, they are the only Christian, or religious at all, charity, that has direct contact with addicts and their families all over Oxford and beyond into the surrounding villages. It might explain the large and random distribution. I can go back through the statements from the case workers and social workers and GPs, to see if any of them referred or knew if the Door was involved.”

“Well, it makes as much sense as any of my very-thin-on-the ground theories. You might answer the how and the why, if not the who and the what. And until we know the what and the who, nothing else will make sense.”

“At least mine takes out the un-Earthly element you seem to be focusing on. Sir.”

“Does it? Someone killing or saving people in the name of their sky-god? Bit un-Earthly, you have to admit.”

“There are unfortunately always people who take scripture too literally and are too certain of their own righteousness,” Hathaway said sadly. “It is part of humanity. Key word here Sir. Human.”

“You’ve not seen what I’ve seen James. And you were there at Harwell.”

“That was still human greed and arrogance, in this case scientists so sure of the righteousness of their theories and their right to tamper with creation. That creature was lost and frightened and not ever meant to meet us or be here. What you are talking about is an alien, who has travelled light years through God knows what way, to experiment on Oxford’s socially excluded. That’s barking. With respect. Sir.”

“I haven’t said that. Nor have I implied it James. And drop the Sir in my flat, alright? Human greed, you said. Well, humans can get hold of alien tech, or chemicals in this case, and they can use it to their own ends. Take the alien out, and the experimentation still stands. I’ve dealt with a case of drugs being trialled for one thing and sold as a high by one of the Oxford research Fellows working on the trial to wee kids. It caused several to kill themselves. Which is why, tomorrow morning I’m going back to Balliol. To talk to a lad called Sebastian. He’s across the landing from that American boy. Remember him?”

“Yes. Probably high functioning autistic. Or just plain rude and cut off from his emotions. Bio-chemist. His brother died of a heroin overdose eighteen months ago.”

“Ah. I didn’t know that. Gives us a possible motive in someone with opportunity and knowledge, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d say that young man couldn’t brush his teeth or find his own socks without prompts. And he’s cut off, remote; I don’t think he’s a person to extrapolate the death of his own twin to want to save others from his bereavement. It takes the kind of social imagination I’m sure he lacks.”

“Aye, or he’s cut of from his emotions through bereavement and isn’t autistic or whatever. Twin, you say, got to be very close to your twin.”

“So. We go back to Balliol tomorrow morning?”

“I do. You can see if you can get to this Door. Get a list of their clients or whatever. Talk to the person in charge about volunteers, how the food boxes and that are distributed.”

“That would be the Mother Superior. But yes, fine, I will try Sir. Can we have those pastries now?”

“You’re little bloody gannet at the moment, aren’t you pet. I left them in my car. Catch!” Lewis threw his keys at Hathaway across the table. “You can have a fag at the same time.”

*

After much persuasion Hathaway spent the night, at first insisting he should go home, that Lewis needed his sleep, and then arguing he would stay on the sofa as he had in the past before...

...“May Sir,” he said bluntly, referring to it without wincing or hiding behind a facade of sarcasm or a blank, unemotional face. He wanted to be honest. “It’s been nice. It sounds awful to say this case, with so any deaths, has been nice, but we’re back to how we were before May, before it happened...”

“Before I asked you out? Before I told you how I felt?” Lewis had panicked.

“No, not that... but I need time. We talked about that. Let me get over the... the rape... properly, and then, together, we can help me get over the childhood stuff. Mortmaigne and things. Abuse. The abuse.” James paused and looked up. He reached across the small distance between them on the table and picked up Robbie’s hand, tracing patterns with his thumb. “There, Robbie, I’ve said the words, okay? I was raped. I need time. And I was abused. I’ve survived abuse. But I’ve survived by being celibate...”

“And you want to be again? I thought...” Robbie was still panicking. Time, space, he could cope with. Not being rejected. Not after such a time of hiding his feelings before getting up the courage to ask James out, to be there for him, and to even come out to Laura and Lyn.

James ducked his head, unable anymore to look at Robbie, but didn’t let go of his hand, but instead squeezed it tightly. “I loved you?” he finished for Robbie. “I do love you. More than ever. But please, I can’t. I want to take one thing at a time, and I’ve now seen that going back to work so soon, with the massive change in our relationship... It was all too much. Especially with Augustus’ trial too. Please...”

Robbie squeezed back and covered their hands with his other one for a moment before releasing James. He knew what the emotional honesty had cost James, and relieved he just said gently, “James love. I’m knackered. You are too. I’ve a good big bed with a bloody expensive orthopaedic mattress you found online for me, so...” Robbie stood and held out his hand. “Let’s go to bed. To sleep.”

James looked up and smiled shyly. “Okay.”

*

It was at gone five in the morning when James woke Robbie, caught in a nightmare, thrashing and squirming, arguing with someone in such a small, childlike voice. From the odd word Robbie caught, James was pleading with someone to stop it, to calm down, to drink coffee and stop shouting.

At his mother, Robbie realised. He was fighting with his drunken father.

Was his father an alcoholic? They came in all shapes and sizes, and some never admitted it and functioned, well of sorts. Look at Morse. Poor sod. He sometimes worried about James, but he’d refused the beer that` night, asked for tea. That had to be a good sign.

Doubly good sign. Those bastards had put Rohypnol in his tea and so for months James wouldn’t touch it.

Robbie waited for James to calm down and be still. He did so after a few minutes, sighing and snuggling up into a curled ball on his side, back to him. He’d planned to go back to sleep himself, but now he was awake his bladder wouldn’t let him. He’d noticed over the last few years, he seemed to need to pee more. Morse had warned him it would happen when he’d made snarky comment about the amount Morse had to.

Once out of the bathroom he grabbed his dressing gown and padded into the kitchen and made himself a large, strong cup of tea and sat at the table with notebook and pen, going though everything. How were they going to get to the bottom of this? The what he would have to leave to Hobson and, behind the scenes, Kate Stewart. The how was probably the best way to go. Trace the stuff back to its source, through addicts, to small time user-dealers, to bigger dealers, to suppliers and smugglers, find where it was cut and that might lead to who is was.

Lewis sighed and got up and found a packet of biscuits tucked away in the back of his cupboard. Neither Lyn nor James would approve, but he munched his way through the pack as he thought.

By seven he’d come up with a solution of sorts, but he wasn’t prepared to share it with James, they had to first see what their trips to the convent and the college would bring. Then there was the fight to get it approved. He was black ops, he could get permission from Stewart and bring in James on his say so. But he had to go through Innocent, and worst than that, SEROCU. And with the shadow of May, would they pass his psychological profile? He doubted it. Perhaps Stewart could help apply pressure.

*

It took Lewis some tracking down of this young lad, Sebastian. Balliol’s porter directed him to the new science labs off Longwall Street, and from there he was told by another post-grad student that he’d gone to lunch and would be back soon and had offered Lewis a coffee. From that Lewis managed to charm his way into Sebastian’s lab after bumping into one of Sebastian’s supervising tutors. Professor Emil Keller was a tall man with silvering, grey, backswept hair that needed a good cut or brush or both, and a small grey-white muzzle of a goatee beard, whom seemed to favour his gown at all times, worn over an expensively cut black suit and silk shirt and tie, despite the heat of August. Notes and various equipment littered the benches and he noted the locked fridges and cupboards.

“He’s licensed to use restricted substances.”

“Such as?”

“Heroin. Morphine. Opium. Extracted THC. Cannabis resin and leaf.”

“Drugs then? No Ecstasy, amphetamines or LSD then, none of that?”

“I believe he’s waiting for the licence to come through on cocaine and its derivatives.”

“What the hell for?”

“Addiction. He’s also looking into the biochemistry of the brain. He has MRI and CT scans from dozens of volunteers. He’s trying to isolate the triggers in brain and hormone responses while isolating the precise structures in each of the drugs that have natural origins that humans can get addicted to.”

“But not alcohol?”

The professor smiled a condescending smile. “That was his first two degrees. Brilliant work that others are now using to improve treatments.”

“Ah. Did you know about his neighbour, the American student on his landing at Balliol? Died of a heroin overdose.”

“I’d heard of it, of course, gossip is rife in this university, and with most students gone down and so many Fellows on sabbaticals or away on vacation, there are few of us about so the gossip is so intense. You don’t think...?”

“I don’t think Sir. I leave it to you clever blokes here. But could he, Sebastian, supplied some of his restricted, licensed stuff to his roommate?”

“He was hardly his roommate. I doubt it; every microgram must be accounted for and is logged both in paper form in this log book and in the computer.” Keller tapped the black leather-bound A-5 notebook that sat on top of the locked fridges.

“Right. And is any missing?”

“No.”

“Can you check?”

“I assure you Inspector. I have no need. I trust my student. He is meticulous in his record keeping. I also would be alerted by e-mail were there an anomaly on the computer record. It would automatically trigger a pre-programmed alert. Besides, when I heard the gossip I checked, myself, visually.”

“Fine. Right. If you’re sure? I’d still like to speak to him. Him living opposite the lad, he might know something. He was in shock when my sergeant interviewed him on the day.”

“I doubt he could help you. Since he has not returned after his lunch I suggest you try the Bodlian or the Museum of the History of Science, which is...”

“I know where it is, thank you.” 

Lewis stood to go. Keller stood also and held out his hand, “Glad to be of help Inspector. I must confess to being puzzled. I had heard this was simple accidental overdose. Tragic, but not surprising from what I’ve heard of those who taught the boy.”

“It might be murder Sir. We have several similar deaths that are fitting a pattern.”

Keller’s smooth face froze for a second before he released Lewis’ hand. “Ah. In that case, might I wish you good luck in you investigation Inspector?” His charming smile was back as Lewis bid him farewell.

*

Hathaway made a phone call first thing that morning from Lewis’ flat to the Mother Superior of St. Mary’s and St. James the Greater, the order who ran The Door from their Convents in Cowley and Iffley. They were Anglican Benedictine nuns who’s Order had a long tradition of work with the sick and dispossessed for over a hundred years. He was lucky, she had a cancellation later that morning, and the diary secretary agreed readily to fit him in, and seemed keen to assist the police in any way they could. Of course, they were aware of the dreadful spike in the numbers of overdosing among heroin addicts, and yes, they had lost several of their client families’ addicted member in the last three weeks themselves.

He was met at the door by a cheerful short nun of indeterminate age in full black habit. “Detective Sergeant Hathaway? Mother Superior asked me to look out for you. I’m Sister Barbara Anne. Please. Follow me.”

Hathaway had to duck his head as he climbed through the little wooden door that opened in the larger gates of the community. He was immediately taken in by the similarities of both colleges and Catholic seminaries and monasteries just by the porch layout. Sister Barbara Anne nodded to the Sister-Porter whom he had spoken to on the intercom and quickly went on. He had to hurry to keep up with the small, squat form swathed in black as she could move at a surprisingly alarming speed.

He followed her across a quad and neatly laid out gardens surrounded by small huts and sheds. In one a group of young people dressed in ubiquitous baggy tracksuit bottoms or jeans, tee shirts and hoodies were sitting at battered old-fashioned wooden desks while an earnest young man in designer glasses, skinny jeans, Chelsea boots and a purple Ben Sherman shirt was waving his hands about as he explained something. An equally battered, ancient blackboard was covered in sums, mostly multiplication and division around the seven times table. In another shed, men and youths of all ages were cluttered around a car engine whilst an elderly man in a blue boiler suit that had seen better days was instructing them. As they crossed the gardens they walked past a third small group of young women and two men around a vegetable patch, digging the soil along with two very small but hardy ancient nuns. As they entered a small door in a redbrick wall Hathaway heard a fourth group, this time someone, a young local woman, was stumbling to read aloud from a primer about space travel. Once in the corridor they passed an open door, where a young woman was reading to an African nun, her ebony skin shining out from her white wimple. The wimple seemed to wash out the white nuns by comparison, Hathaway reflected. The rest of the class sat on the floor, waiting their turn.

Sister Barbara Anne caught him looking. “We are rather short of furniture. We did have some lovely sofas and easy chairs in the reading corner, but you remember Venner Close in Greater Leys I’m sure, being a police officer?”

“That was the group of flats firebombed by drugs gangs?”

“Yes. The families lost everything. We donated what we could once they were re-housed.”

The sister led him on along the corridor. Hathaway looked out the other side from the offices, classrooms and therapy rooms across the other, obviously private quad. On the far side was a Cloister.

Finally they arrived at a small anteroom. “Detective Sergeant Hathaway,” Sister Barbara Anne announced.

A much younger nun in the white veil of a novice stood from her desk. “Golly-gosh. The police. Is it a raid?” She laughed nervously.

Hathaway smiled nervously. “Not at all,” he stumbled out.

“You mustn’t mind Sister Janet Marie, Sergeant. Well, I will leave you in her capable hands. Goodbye.” And with that she swept out.

“Please, sit down Sergeant. Mother Superior apologises but she has been called away. She will endeavour to return soon. In the meantime, can I offer you tea? Coffee? A glass of water?”

“Water would be most welcome, thank you. And a coffee. White, one sugar.”

“It is hot, isn’t? I shall be two ticks.”

Hathaway had time to reflect how Anglican nuns seemed to be both more welcoming to males in their shrines and less scary before the young novice returned with his water and coffee. It was instant, a generic cheap brand, no doubt. But he was dehydrated and hungry and wasn’t going to be snobby here.

Sister Janet Marie returned to her desk and continued with what she had been doing on her computer for a short time before she looked up and asked, “Would you like something to read?”

“Um...?”

“We do have the local newspapers, the I and the Times somewhere, and as you can see, we have the Church Times here and our own newsletter,” she offered helpfully. She then pointed to the old, dark wooden shelving unit in the corner of the room, “The bookcase I doubt has anything to interest a policeman. To be honest, not many of us read any of it ourselves, but apparently the previous Mother Superior thought it gave the right impression.” She giggled nervously.

“You might think,” Hathaway said neutrally as he stood and walked over to the case. “In this instant I can confess to have read all of this and even own some.”

“Golly-gosh! That really does not sound like a normal policeman. Gosh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“No, I do get ribbed for it at work. I have a degree in Theology. I even did a year in the Seminary. Roman not Anglican.” He selected a battered copy of the Meditations of Thomas Aquinas and sat down again.

“More coffee Sergeant? I’m sure I might be able to rustle you up a couple of biscuits if you like.”

“That’s very kind. Biscuits would be very welcome.”

*

Lewis tried the Bodlian first before heading further up the Broad past the Sheldonian and up the steps to the Museum of the History of Science. It was one of those typically Oxford museums, in that it hadn’t really changed much since being owned by some benevolent Victorian eccentric who wished to share his odd collection. However, it was noisy, with many groups of Japanese, Chinese, Spanish and German language school groups carrying clipboards and wearing the brightly coloured matching backpacks. Some local and tourist British family groups wandered around, obviously looking for something to fill a day far too hot for the park and unhappy with or unable to get into the probably very crowded Hinksey Pool. 

After ten minutes of looking he gave up and approached a bored looking overweight security guard sitting by the entrance and showed his warrant card.

“I’m looking for a Sebastian Kettering. His tutor told me he might be here.”

“Seb? Yeah, he’s here. He can’t be in trouble, he’s such a quiet boy.”

“Oh no. It’s about an... incident at this college. He might have overheard anything or know anything about the lad.”

“This that suicide? Yeah, I heard. Seb is in the basement; he’s helping collate some old documents that just got donated in some will. Straight through that door marked staff only and down the stairs. Then it’s the door on the left. Can’t miss it Inspector.”

“Thanks.”

“I remember you at least Inspector Lewis. You were a sergeant then. It’s me. PC Dixon as was. You had to bollock me out once for Morse. Years ago.”

“Oh God. That was years ago. Fishing rods wasn’t it? You didn’t stick then?”

“Pensioned out. Some boy off his face shot me.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Lewis said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Got me compensation, a pension, and a cushy job here. Always liked science as a kid. And it could be worse; I could be dead. Heard about Morse. Sad that.”

“Yeah, yeah it was. Great to see you Dixon, but you know... straight though there, yeah?”

*

“I wish I could help you further Sergeant. All our helpers are thoroughly vetted and I simply can’t imagine anyone wishing anyone harm. That’s not why they volunteer. Besides, most food and toiletry boxes are delivered by the sisters,” Hathaway was told after he explained a little of the deaths and stumbled his way through his theory.

“I must admit Reverend Mother, it is a long shot and very shaky, but we are desperate. The way these poor people are dying is unique and we need to find the person who is doing this before anymore die.

“I do see James. I do. I shall give it my thoughts and prayers, and of course pray for those victims I wasn’t aware of. And I shall instruct Sister Janet Marie to e-mail you the names and addresses once we have asked permission. Permission is, of course, a formality in our volunteers’ case. If, on the off chance, one refuses, I shall contact you directly and we shall see how we can get around the confidentiality clause. Although everyone has already had fully enhanced CRB checks.”

“No, I do understand that. Of course I do. And I thank you for your co-operation.”

“Before I hand you over to Sister Barbara Anne, tell me James, are you happy in the police? With your new life in general? I know we only the met the once, and you weren’t very happy then, but...”

“Yes. Well, as happy as anyone, that is...”

“Yet there is a sadness behind your eyes?”

“I’ve had a difficult summer, that’s all.”

“If you need to talk...”

“I’m fine. My boss, well, my friend, is very supportive. I was assaulted. Drugged and... raped... and...”

“James!”

“I’m fine. Honest.”

“I shall pray for you. Can I tell Fr. Austin?”

“Fr. Austin retired. It’s Fr. Andrews and Fr. Edwards now. They do know, I had to... confession...”

“You have nothing to confess.”

“No, I know. I haven’t been to Mass since...”

“There are alternatives you know, to your church. We are all reaching out to our Father, we are all called to worship in our own way. Please James...”

“I have to go Reverend Mother. My boss...”

“I can recommend an Anglican priest or the Anglican Franciscans brothers run very supportive retreats, as you know, if...”

“I’m fine...” Hathaway was now backing away to the door, his eyes beginning to look haunted.

*

Sebastian was extremely nervous and also confused as to the policeman being in the basement. It took a lot of soothing and explaining on Lewis’ side to get him to even focus. In some ways he was reminded of Philip Horton, but is other ways, he was completely different. Well people were people, whatever the label, Lewis decided.

“He asked me. He was always asking me,” Sebastian finally admitted. “I think once he even offered me a hundred dollars. But I would never...”

“What is it you hope to do Sebastian? With this research?”

“Do?” He seemed confused by Lewis’ question.

“Yeah, you know. Find a cure to addiction? Stop people ever trying the stuff? Prove it’s not that dangerous so it’s legalised and save us cops a lot of bother?” Lewis smiled, to show the last question was a bit of a joke.

“I want to know how humans get addicted and what each of the drugs have in common at a biochemical level. That’s all. If I can then manipulate the biochemistry and human hormonal response to it to either stop the addiction or the original high it would improve pain relief drug administration and maybe socially cure the cost of addiction, but that is decades away from my research now. All I am interested in now is the biochemical and hormonal markers.”

“What about viruses?”

“Viruses Inspector? I don’t...” Sebastian looked away, towards the door on his left. Lad could be lying, or he could be so autistic eye contact was painful for him, Lewis decided. Lewis had done all the courses after Philip and now the Thames Valley were even piloting an awareness campaign of warning cards so uniform could respond more appropriately to what might look like a routine anti-social behaviours but might well be an autistic melt down.

“Could these factors you look for look like a virus? Or act like a virus?”

“As in the hormonal or immune response to the drug, or the addictive element, you mean? Or the addictive response mimic a virus once the substance is deprived or altered?”

“Both. Either. Neither.”

“It seems unlikely,” Sebastian replied, looking at Lewis, if not in his eyes, then in his direction, shaking his head vehemently.

*

Hathaway was very unsettled by his meeting. It was ten years or more since his uncle’s family priest had persuaded him to go on retreat in a local Anglican monastery that had good connections with the Roman Catholics. The brothers had set up counselling sessions for him at their sister convent. His uncle had been concerned about his sudden decision to join the police after months of drifting following his disgraced leaving of the Seminary. His whole family had been so excited and proud about his vocation and disappointed at his leaving it. 

The look of compassion and understanding when he had said the word ‘raped’ had left him wanting to cry. His father confessor had not been so sympathetic, after all. If he hadn’t been desperate to talk to someone about being in love with a man and suffering such awful jealously, if he hadn’t been in that gay nightclub in the first place... holding Lewis’ words in his mind he’d walked out of the confessional, out of the church and had yet to go back.

As he and Sister Barbara Anne walked back across the gardens he noticed a young woman in a floor length floral dress and a bulky cardigan, despite the heat. Her hair was white blonde, blonder and paler than his, and fell down her back like a pre-Raphaelite dream. She was struggling with a heavy box. Without thinking he stepped forward,

“Let me," he said trying to take it from her.

“I’m fine, thank you. I have my car in the kitchen yard.” She pulled the box closer to her and stumbled away in her flip-flops.

“Who’s that?” he asked, without thinking.

“Oh. That’s Francesca Floyd. One of out volunteer distributors. She goes to families with children mostly. Teaching English one day a week and is helping out at out play scheme this summer. She’s a sociology student at Keble. She’s studying addiction and how it affects family life. She’s not using us, Sergeant; I think it’s more redemption. Her fiancé died last year of a heroin overdose.”


	8. Manchester Interlude 1

Lewis almost jumped when Innocent spoke, he’d not heard her come into his office, so lost was he in contemplation of the seven incident boards, now containing seven more victims than when he had started on this investigation just over a week before.

“Sorry. Did I interrupt your train of thought? I did knock.”

“Sorry Ma’am. Yes, lost in thought, contemplating actions.”

“And what actions are they? Are you making any progress at all? I understand Dr. Hobson is struggling to make any headway as to what this actual thing is.”

“That in itself is worrying Ma’am. Adds to the theory that it is deliberately being made and added, addicts targeted for some reason.”

“I agree. But I’m still struggling with the Chief Constable. So, what progress, and what actions?”

“Progress is slow Ma’am. Very slow. James had an idea of a religious fanatic but I think he’s drawn a blank, although he has a Mother Superior of a local convent on that trail for him.”

“Only with Hathaway,” Innocent said, smiling.

“I do need your help Ma’am.”

“Yes, I did receive your e-mails. Drugs are proving to be very uncooperative. Unfortunately they are not under my command and I have to go through their own Superintendent. Slow going. I am still on it Lewis. But I would like some clarity on what information you need the most.”

“Small time dealers’ names and addresses, the little sprats they let fall through the net to catch the mackerel or even the pike. Any other big time dealers’ names they suspect but have no evidence. Likewise any heroin factory location they might suspect.”

“Big ask Robbie. They guard their information jealously even when we have a straight forward murder.”

“Aye, I know.”

Both officers sighed and stared at the boards some more.

“I was thinking the answer might be easier if I went undercover, lived among the addicts, somewhere off Cowley Road. Maybe if I posed as a small time dealer, crook, wannabe gangster recently comes down from Newcastle, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds like you’re desperate. Making things up as you go. South East Covert Operations is going to need something a little more precise. And what about Hathaway, will he stay here collating any information you gather?”

“I was thinking he would come in with me undercover.”

“As what Lewis? I know this sounds awful being his boss, but I struggle sometimes with seeing him as a policeman, much less your heavy. He’s a bit... um... precious?”

“Ma’am!”

“Sorry, but there it is. Then the physical differences make it unlikely for him to be your son in any believable way.”

“As I said Ma’am, I’ve not worked out the details yet.”

“I suppose he could be your bitch.”

“Ma’am!” Lewis suddenly turned to look at his boss with a dirty grin, “Is that a direct order Ma'am?”

“Lewis! Behave yourself. How old are you? I was meaning undercover, it might be the most convincing role for him, your lover. Your gangster persona’s bit of posh totty boy toy.”

“H’m. He’s not that posh, really, is he?”

“Isn’t he?”

“Forget it Ma’am.”

“Is he really up to going undercover? I know from your file you have, and of course SEROCU would have no problems passing you fit, but would James, after all he’s been through in recent months, even pass his psychological fitness test?”

“He’s alright. You know he is.”

“H'm. Your faith in him is touching. But it’s not what I think and my recommendation alone...”

“It’s only an idea. I might go undercover for Them and just insist on James, he’s in it so deep now, all my investigation...”

“A joint Thames Valley/UNIT operation will still need a nod from SEROCU if officers are to go undercover. You know procedure.”

“Aye. Like I said Ma’am, it’s just an idea fermenting at the back of my mind. James is waiting on names and addresses from his super nun and I’ve got some fingers in pies at the science labs over on Longwall...”

Lewis phone buzzed demandingly. He pulled it from his pocket and saw it was Lyn.

“Sorry Ma’am,” he showed her the caller’s ID. “Baby’s due next week, or thereabouts...”

“Answer it.”

“Hello love.”

Lyn was practically shrieking so Jean had no difficulty in hearing both sides of the conversation.

“Dad! I’m so sorry to ring you at work.”

“What’s going on love? Are you okay?”

“I’ve been having contractions now for nearly three days, fifteen minutes apart. I’m so bloody knackered. Sorry. Didn’t mean to swear Dad! Oh!”

“Lyn? Lyn love?”

“Okay now. Yeah, I didn’t want to bother you...”

“It’s no bother pet...”

“So, it had to Braxtons’ Hicks, right? First babies are always late, not early...”

“Bloody nurses,” Lewis mouthed to Innocent before saying, “There’s no hard and fast rules love.”

“Anyway, they’re getting closer together now. I think I ought to go to hospital so I thought I ought to just tell you what is going on...” Lyn suddenly burst into tears.

“Lyn. I’m here. I’m coming up, okay?”

“Oh Dad! I’m so lonely here. All my friends were Tim and my friends, or they think I was so stupid. I was so stupid. How could I not see what a bastard Jeremy was? He should be here though. Or Mum! I want Mum!” She broke off only to pant with pain.

“Lyn love. I’m on my way. Okay. Hold on. Your old Dad is here. I might not be your Mam but she’d want me with you...”

“Daddy...”

“I’m coming. I’m hanging up now pet but that’s so I can drive up. Love you Lyn.”

“Robbie. Are you okay?” Innocent demanded, cutting through Robbie’s struggle with his feelings. He wanted Val too.

Robbie looked at his hands. They were shaking. “I did tell you I might need a day or two leave next week...”

“Well, you have it now. But you’re in no fit state to drive. Hathaway can drive you...”

“Can drive the Inspector where Ma’am?”

Hathaway was at the door, two coffees and two packs of sandwiches in his hands. He looked from Lewis’ white face and shaking hands to Innocent’s concerned face.

“Are you alright Sir?” he asked, slightly panicked.

“Lewis is fine James, his daughter is not. She’s in labour. I want you to drive your boss up to Manchester and take the rest of the day and the next two off. You’ve both worked flat out for ten days now. Go.”

“Come on Sir.”

“Take Lewis’ car and get the train back.”

“Of course Ma’am.”

“And blues and twos all the way Hathaway. By the time you leave Oxfordshire I’d have cleared it with all forces all the way up to Manchester.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“And James. Don’t let Lewis drive under any circumstances.”

“Understood Ma’am.”

*

“You don’t need to do this for me James,” Robbie said as James opened the passenger door for his boss.

“Of course I do Sir. I’m under orders. Besides, I want to. I’d be doing this anyway. As your...” James dropped his voice to a whisper, “boyfriend.”

“Aye. I mean blatting up the motorways under the lights. You hate all that.”

“If we’re to get there in time, we need it, and Innocent has told me... Robbie, your hand is shaking! I hope that is for your daughter and not because you don’t trust my driving.”

“Oh lad, I know how you...”

“I’ve passed my Advanced Drivers, and hating something is not the same as not knowing how to do it. Just sit down Sir and relax. As much as you’re able to.”

“Thank you James love.” Lewis sat down and closed the door and waited for James to get in the driver’s seat and as he did so he squeezed his thigh. “You can be quite a bossy sod at times, can’t you? Not sure I like it.”

“Only when it’s for your own good Sir. S’sh. I need to concentrate to get us out of the bloody city rush hour traffic...”

Which of course, for the most part, parted like the Red Sea for Moses for a dark blue Vauxhall Astra with lights flashing above the headlights and windscreen while it shrieked its high-pitched siren. In mere minutes they had cleared north Oxford and were on they way up the A34 to the M40.

*

They had just got onto the M6 when Lewis’ phone rang again, displaying Lyn’s number. Lewis had automatically plugged it into the hands free as soon as he’d got into his car and sat down. Hathaway answered it for him from the steering wheel control after a quick glance and nod at his boss. Lewis took a deep breath but before he could say hello Lyn shrieked breathlessly as soon as she heard the phone answered,

“Dad!”

“Lyn? Are you okay love?”

“No. I can’t get hold of my midwife, and the GP’s surgery is so busy I keep getting put on hold or the ringing tone. The hospital told me to come down but no taxi company will agree to take me!” She sounded very panicked. “I really don’t know whether to phone an ambulance. It’s not really an emergency. Am I...?”

“Lyn, listen to me...”

“I don’t want to be a nuisance!” Lyn broke off, obviously dealing with another contraction.

“Lyn, you must phone them,” by now Lewis too was sounding more than a little panicked himself.

“Daaaad!!!” Lyn wailed. “It’s awful!”

“How close?” Hathaway interrupted.

“Five. Four. Minutes,” she gasped out. “Maybe three.”

“Hang up and call them love.”

“I’m scared Dad. Don’t hang up. Please.”

“Lyn,” Hathaway said gently but firmly, “I’m going to be putting you on hold. I’m not hanging up, okay? Just stay on the line please. Your Dad is still here.” He had to do something, Lyn was obviously far too scared to hang up and Lewis appeared to be frozen with concern and fear for his daughter. Using the remote he clicked the control button, which he knew would take through to the nearest police control. A calm woman officer answered.

“DS Hathaway, Oxford CID. We’re driving on the M6. My Inspector’s daughter is on the line; she’s completely alone and in labour. Could you put her call through to ambulance control for Manchester?”

“Manchester? This is Stoke Control.”

“I realise that. But she’s in Manchester. We’re driving up. I’d appreciate it if you could try. She’s in no state to hang up and make the call herself.”

“Hold on sergeant. I can’t connect automatically, I’ll have to find them.”

“Fine. We’ll hold.” He clicked the remote. “Lyn, I’m calling the ambulance for you. Stay on the line. We’re near. About an hour away.”

“Be with you soon Lyn love.”

“Dad. It hurts!”

“I know love.”

Hathaway clicked the line back as the young woman in Stoke control said, “Found them. Putting you through.”

“Thanks.”

“Ambulance.”

“DS Hathaway. Police. I have a young woman on the line, in labour and completely alone, taxis refusing to take her to maternity. Contractions every three minutes.”

“Okay. Where are you?”

“She’s on the phone. Putting you through. Wait one second.” He clicked the remote again. “Lyn. I’m putting you through to the ambulance people now. Just stay calm and give them your address, okay, and they’ll be with you soon. Once you’ve told them where you are can you get your flat door open?”

“Yeah. Where’s Dad?”

“I’m here pet. James is driving like a demon, we’re under lights.”

“Blues and twos,” Lyn said dreamily, a calm between contractions.

“Yeah, that’s right love, we’ve already passed Stoke.”

“See you Dad.”

“Be there soon love.”

James clicked the remote and ended the call, Lyn and the ambulance connected. He put his toe to the floor again, having slowed down and switched off the siren to deal with Lyn. The car began to wail and glided out seamlessly through the traffic to the outside lane as it topped 130 miles an hour.

*

It was under an hour and a half after they had left when Hathaway pulled up outside the main entrance of the maternity unit. Lewis leapt out and ran immediately for the door, barely acknowledging Hathaway telling him he would park the car and find them.

The receptionist directed Lewis to a waiting room ante to the delivery suites where a second receptionist told him to sit down and she would find out what was happening to Miss Lewis.

He’d barely sat down when a midwife came barrelling through the plastic double swing doors and came up to him.

“Are you the father?”

“Of who?” Lewis asked hurriedly, strangely hearing Morse’s voice echo in his head, ‘of whom, Lewis, of whom!’

“Lyn Lewis’s baby.”

“I’m Lyn’s father, not the baby’s. Is she alright? The baby?”

“The baby’s not delivered yet. Lyn is asking for you. She’s all alone. She needs a birthing partner. I know it’s normally the partner, or the mother, but would you mind? Bit awkward I suppose.”

“No. No. She’s my girl.”

“That’s the ticket. Follow me. Just wash your hands first.”

“’Course.”

*

By the time Hathaway arrived in the right waiting room Lewis had been with Lyn for nearly an hour. He showed his warrant card and explained why he was there and whom he had brought and was then told his boss was with his daughter, who was still in labour, if he could come back. James looked so confused and yawned hugely that the young Asian reception in a purple hijab asked him if he was okay in her broad Lancashire accent.

Hathaway nodded, then shook his head, and yawned again. “No. I’ve just driven over a hundred and sixty miles in just over an hour.” He looked down at his hand and saw it was shaking. He held it up to the young woman in wonder. “They train you to drive at high speed with lights, and I’ve passed the advanced drivers, but I’ve never driven like that in my life.” He surprised himself; he was not usually the sort of person to blurt out his feelings to those he felt comfortable with, which really amounted to just Robbie Lewis and perhaps his cousin and uncle, let alone a stranger. He must be far more shaken than he realised!

“Wow! Look. Sit down, over there, in the corner. I’ll get you a tea with sugar.” She ducked under the counter and put up a ‘back in five minutes’ sign and rushed off. When she came back Hathaway was leant back, long, long legs stretched out in front of him, head back resting on the wall, sound asleep. She placed the tea and a bar of Kit Kat beside him on a small table and left him to it.

*

James awoke with a sore back, a stiff neck and severe cramp in his legs. He also felt dehydrated. The lights were dimmed and the desk shut up and dark, the waiting room empty beside himself. He guessed it must be late, that he had slept a while. He was not surprised at that, he had been physically and mentally exhausted, but he was surprised at how late it had become when he glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven at night. He had slept a long time indeed! 

He noticed the cold tea beside him, the tea the receptionist had offered to fetch for him, he supposed. As he was so desperately thirsty he drained it in one. He was still thirsty, but also desperate to pee, so he got up to search for a Gents, a drink, and something to eat, in that order. He looked briefly through the plastic windows of the double swing doors that led to the delivery suites and wondered where Lewis and his daughter were, and if all were well. Lewis, his daughter, and his grandchild, he mentally amended.

He found a cafe, closed, half-lit, but with vending machines still switched on, and managed to get himself a bottle of water, some chicken mayo sandwiches, a packet of crisps and a cup of coffee. Replete, he went in search of Lewis, or at least, information on Lyn.

He found a porter, who pointed him to a twenty-four hours reception desk the other side of the hospital. He found it after a while, and the young man, once shown his warrant card, informed him that Miss Lyn Lewis was not yet admitted to one of the maternity wards so must still be in the delivery rooms. He smiled reassuringly, and promised James, that as a father of four, he could safely say that these things sometimes took a long time, but it was nothing at all to worry about.

On the assumption that Lewis, at least, would have to exit through the same double plastic swing doors he’d entered by, James returned to the same waiting room, stopping at another vending machine to get a cola, two more bottles of water, and a Mars Bar, for his boss.

He was still very exhausted, and now, also full of food, and bored, so this time he stretched out across a whole row of chairs, and using his jacket, folded, as a pillow, fell fast asleep. The drive had been so stressful, as had staying calm and in control for Robbie. Driving that fast under lights and sirens had been far, far more mentally and physically exhausting than he could have even imagined. He had, for the time being at least, a new respect for Traffic officers.

* 

Meanwhile, back in Oxford, in his room in Balliol, Sebastian Kettering had not slept again. His mind was a boiling turmoil of torment. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was being persecuted. After a whole night of it, he pulled on his favourite, falling to bits, loved sweater and his aging converses and went for a walk. The city centre was almost deserted; its ancient buildings washed clean in the dew and golden light of the dawn. The odd car or bus went past, but mostly the very few vehicles that drove past him were lorries and the ubiquitous white vans making deliveries to the city centre’s businesses; the shops, cafes and restaurants. There were no other pedestrians. He walked up the High, listening to the pounding of his feet on the pavement, tapping out a rhythm, the sounds spelling out the words, ‘Virus, virus, virus,’ as he walked.

His research was no where near perfecting a viral cure to addiction; an infection cancelling out the high the drug caused and eliminating the physical additive chemical marker, giving the flu like cold turkey symptoms when first tried rather than when tried to quit. A perfect idea and that was his ultimate aim. But he had shared it with no one apart from Professor Keller, and until Keller had told him of this research team in Harvard he had thought he was alone in the very idea. But from the papers Keller had given him, Thascales and his team of undergraduates were further away from him at isolating individual genes, human or plant. He wasn’t sure if stopping it was even that team’s aim.

His aim though, which was why when that rather frightening Northern CID inspector had mentioned a virus he had been surprised. It might be his aim, but as he told the Inspector, it was decades away. That policeman had intimidated him, too. As if he needed anyone to make him feel more guilty for poor Amos. Like stupid, addicted Peter, throwing his life away.

Francesca had said that the police had been at St. Mary’s and St. Jim’s too. That it wasn’t just poor Amos. Apparently lots of addicts had died in a similar way to Amos. Could it be a virus? A natural mutation? It would be a first in the hundreds, or even thousands, of years, that humans had been using the opium poppy for medical, religious and recreational purposes.

But Sebastian didn’t even give any of the modified heroin to Amos, just a little regular stuff he kept back, for control. Professor Keller had assured him none were missing. Besides, the laboratory was locked, the fridges were locked, and the supplies in locked boxes in the fridges. Not only that, all supplies was split in half, certainly the altered, experimental stuff. Half was in Sebastian’s lab in the new laboratories on Longwall Street, the rest in Keller’s office at the Department of Chemistry around the corner on Parks Road. There was no way Amos could have got greedy and lifted the experimental stuff. 

Besides, it may have been gene spliced but no viral component was added. As he had told the Geordie officer, that was years away, decades even. And there was no way the spliced heroin could kill! Maybe not give the required hit, hopefully, but in the absence of anything larger than a mouse, how could he really tell?

Only Tim’s the Newsagent was open on the High so early in the morning, apart from the revolting McDonald’s around the corner. Sebastian stopped outside, wondering if he were hungry. Instead, he bought the local newspapers, all three of them, Times, Mail and Herald. There was nothing in any of them concerning a rise in heroin overdoses or allergic reactions, or drug related deaths at all. Not even in the more tabloid Oxford Mail. The police could not be that concerned them, or else they would issue warnings.

An allergic reaction? Could it be specific to Amos? No, of course not, he wouldn’t have access. Sebastian had established that in his thoughts. Logically. Several times already. But allergy was his ultimate aim. If he could trigger the right immune response, he could force humans to become allergic to the addictive qualities of dangerous highs. Humanity could advance so much further if no one got drunk or stoned, if no one wanted to. The absence of the drug cartels, gang turf wars, terrorism and organised crime, the freeing up of national security and police budgets... there were unaccountable benefits to the world!

But, as he had explained, sadly it was decades away before he could come close to even approaching his dream.

*

It was gone three in the morning when James awoke again. This time his twenty-four hour contacts had obviously dissolved, proving to him yet again that they weren’t quite as long lasting as the twenty-four hours they claimed! Still, he had learned many years ago, soon after he had been transferred to CID, to keep a couple of spares in his jacket pocket.

Now he was more awake the pressure on his bladder to empty all the water and coffee he’d drunk previously was unbearable. It was also a daunting prospect to go all the way to the nearest Gents he had found with the world extremely blurry and slightly scary as such. He remembered seeing a disabled toilet just the other side of the plastic doors leading to delivery suite, he was sure it would be okay, there was no-one about.

After he had relieved himself he splashed cold water on his face, rinsed out his eyes and put in his new contacts. He wished fervently for a toothbrush and toothpaste, it felt like his teeth had fur growing on them.

When he came out of the toilet he heard something and turned his head to look down the corridor where there seemed to be a flurry of movement and sound. A bed was being pushed out of a suite accompanied by a midwife, a doctor in green scrubs, the woman white and drained on the bed, then another midwife, this time in blue scrubs, talking on a two-way to someone ordering a theatre to be prepped, and a porter pushing the bed. Finally came Lewis, who quickly rushed to the side of the bed and took Lyn’s hand.

“Stay awake for me pet,” he said urgently.

James immediately stepped back out of sight, the last thing Lewis needed was to worry about him too.

Not knowing what else to do, scared for Robbie and his daughter, James sat back in the waiting room, bowed his head and prayed and prayed that all would be well.


	9. Manchester Interlude 2

Nearly two hours later a woman in a ward auxiliary nurse’s uniform approached him. James looked up, startled as she spoke,

“Are you Mr. Hathaway?”

“Um. Yes.”

“Your boyfriend needs to see you. He’s going to need things for his daughter.”

“Oh? Right?” James coughed as he pulled himself together. “Is everything okay? With Lyn? The baby...?”

“A healthy, if tiny, baby girl. Miss Lewis is sleeping, and Mr Lewis doesn’t want to leave her...”

“No, of course not.” James stood, casting his eyes heavenwards in thanks as he did so.

*

Sebastian Kettering had done a complete circle of the Oxford city centre without realising it, walking up the High, along Cornmarket, down the Broad, along Catte Street, through Radcliffe Square and back out onto the High. He could go home now. The fresh air had cleared his headache at least, if not made him sleepy or stopped his fretting. He hated nights like this, and the days that followed. No sleep and an overload of anxiety. The only reason he no longer had meltdowns or panic attacks was the work he had done of himself, on his breathing, when he was younger. He’d taken books and books out of the library, psychology, psychotherapy and even the more popular self-help books, until he found a breathing technique and a mind-training practice, to stop them. Banging your head and screaming, however awful you felt inside, were not acceptable forms of behaviour, although how other people dealt with these feelings and thoughts he had no idea. People were a mystery. The alternative, that came once he controlled the meltdowns were worse, people around one panicked too, thinking he was having a heart attack or asthma attack, and would not leave him alone.

The traffic was growing heavy now, bus after bus laden with the hoi polloi on their way to work. Sebastian hated crowds. Soon the tourists would be out too. He could go back to his rooms. Perhaps e-mail Professor Keller again. Although he knew the professor would quash Sebastian’s strange sense of guilt and feeling of responsibility by the sheer weight of pure facts. Mere coincidence, dear boy, he would reassure again, with that strangely predatorial but charming smile, his dark eyes glinting, forcing Sebastian to look into them, however painful it was for him to do so.

Or perhaps he could turn into Longwall Street, go back to the new labs, and visually check himself. He could count the batches, go through each logbook, and tally against the computer log. Except he knew he did not make mistakes. Plus, of course, he had already done that twice the day Amos died, and again after his interview with Inspector Lewis at the museum the day before. He had to remind himself it was the day before, for of course, not having slept, the two days merged as one in Sebastian’s tired thinking.

No, he should go home. Prolonged lack of sleep would affect his judgement, alter his perception, however familiar a companion insomnia was to him, and always had been, since early childhood. He had a tincture of valerian he had made himself. He could put a few drops into some camomile tea. Sometimes that would work, accompanied by a little gentle Handel or Mendelssohn.

He could even look up the research team for himself, this other one at Harvard, the one led by Keller’s colleague Professor Thascales. Hopefully he could find out more than Keller had told him, more than the printout of the summary e-mail and the funding digest of the proposed research Keller had given him. Perhaps they had succeeded in pushing the viral envelope, spliced the virus into the opium gene markers that stimulated the human neural pathways for the stimulus of pleasure/pain and/or addiction?

Unlikely, he knew. Without any sense of ego and pride, he knew he was the best and the furthest on in this research on Earth.

In the end, struggling with making any decision, with too many to make, Sebastian’s feet kept him moving, his ancient converses drumming out a tattoo on the pavement: ‘What to do? What to do?’

*

Lyn was in a side ward with four more beds, two occupied, babies in cots beside them, all asleep. Beside the third bed sat a woman breast-feeding. Lewis sat next to the fourth, in the far corner, holding the tiniest baby James had ever seen in his arms. It was wrapped in a yellow blanket, its tiny face poking out, bright blue eyes staring, unfocused at the ceiling, masses of dark hair on its head that looked wet and spiky. As James approached it yawned, opening its tiny mouth showing little pink gums. Lyn was asleep in the bed, snuffling and snoring slightly. She lay on her back, one arm out of bed with a saline drip attached. A drain was coming away from her abdomen.

James crouched down beside Robbie’s chair. He put a finger delicately to the baby’s hair. “Sir? Robbie?” he whispered.

“Oh James love. I wasn’t sure they would let you in,” Robbie whispered back.

“The nurse said you need me to fetch things for Lyn. Five minutes she said.”

“Meet my granddaughter. Isn’t she beautiful?”

“Yes,” James said firmly. “Is she okay though? She’s so tiny. Is Lyn okay?”

“Baby’s fine, just small. It’s because our Lyn’s just not been eating. She’s five pounds, but they say she’s fine, just needs feeding up and keeping warm. Lyn’s exhausted and malnourished. Heartbroken. The bastard!”

“But... but I saw you, going to theatre?”

“My poor wee lass was so tired out, she couldn’t push, they tried forceps, the works, but in the end she had to have a caesarean. They’re going to keep her in for a while, until she gets her weight up, and the baby’s too.”

“What do you need?”

“Eh?”

“I’ve got five minutes. What do you need, what does Lyn need?”

“I don’t want to let go of this wee one. In my trouser pocket is Lyn’s flat key. You’ll find the address in my notebook in the glove box in the car. Can you get my phone too, other pocket, that’s right? I want you to fetch Lyn a bag, her toiletries stuff, a couple of nighties, comfy clothes, loose like, and undies. Grab her a book or two, whatever she seems to be reading by her bed, she’s almost as much as a bookworm as you. You’re gonna have to ring her work – I know she works here in the children’s ward but it’s not likely they’ll know.”

“I’ll do all that, of course I will. But why have I got your phone?”

“Charge it, okay. And later on, after you’ve done all for Lyn, you’ll need to check my e-mails, voicemails and texts. I’ve got info coming in regarding Sebastian Kettering’s research, and I’m expecting a contact from UNIT, a scientist who’s gonna review Hobson’s work. Action anything you can and bring the rest back to me.”

“Sir! Robbie! You’ve had no sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when I know my little girl is safe, okay?”

“Of course. What about your new little girl? Is there a layette? Does Lyn have it all at home?”

“Oh! The clothes we bought will be too big for this little wee scrap. Can you buy stuff for tiny babies?”

“I’m sure I’m seen a premmie baby range in supermarkets.”

“Why would you know that?”

“I don’t know! I notice things! Perhaps Tesco had an offer on them with big signs and my brain just filed it away. I’ll get something. What though?”

“Vests. Babygro thingies. Cardigans. That’ll do for now.”

“What weight is she? I’m sure baby clothes go by weight? Or at least, the early baby range will. And nappies probably do. She’ll need tiny nappies, that one looks too big.” James looked at the bulge making the yellow blanket stick out.

“Yeah. Right. Five pounds. Didn’t I say?”

“Probably. Right? Overnight stuff for Lyn, enough for a week, to be safe. Books to read. Baby clothes and nappies. Cream and lotions and wipes and all the other baby stuff. Charge your phone. Action what I can on the case. Bring to you what I can’t. Anything else?”

“Yeah, there’s a Travelodge two blocks over from Lyn’s flats. Book us in a double. Get us some toothbrushes, toothpaste, shaving stuff, deo or whatnot for you. Clean pants and some clothes. Do you know...?”

“I know your size Sir.” James grinned up at Robbie.

“You would.”

“I’d better go. Do you want my phone?”

“I’ve got me personal one.”

“See you then.”

“Bye James.”

“Bye. Grandpa.”

James had been teasing, but Robbie just gave him an exhausted, but exceedingly soppy, grin.

*

James spent the morning sorting everything out. First he cleaned the flat and packed a bag. Then he grabbed a quick shower and borrowed Lyn’s deodorant. He rejected the use of her razor she had for her legs. He used his finger with her toothpaste and her mouthwash and felt then marginally less scummy.

Then he went shopping, finding a large Tescos, where he was able to get everything under one roof, including underwear and socks, jeans and two tees for himself, as well as a couple of shirts, one green, the same green as the polo shirt Lewis was fond of that Val had bought him, and a blue one to bring out the brightness of his blue eyes. Trainers for Robbie, converses for himself. Then it was toiletries, first for him and Robbie, and then the harder part of figuring out what was essential for a newborn baby. In the end he bought the entire Johnson’s range, baby bath, powder, wipes, the works. While buying nappies he noticed something called maternity pads with the feminine items on the opposite shelves. He put them in the trolley too, in case they were essential for Lyn. Then it was on to the baby clothes. He had been correct, he found two sizes of the Early Baby range, so bought the second size, amazed at how tiny the clothes were. As instructed, he had intended to get the basics but when he saw the range of tiny, perfect little dresses, he couldn’t resist buying one pink one with little yellow flowers, another with tiny strawberries, a pink cotton sunhat, and a yellow cotton sundress with embroidered flowers in white, with a matching sunhat. This prompted him to go back and buy sun cream safe for newborns, it being so hot and sunny an August.

After clothing and cleansing was sorted out for all of them, James bought a selection of cheap disposable plastic containers and foil pie and flan dishes. Then he bought food, basic stuff, chicken, mince, fish, potatoes, onions, garlic, carrots, celery, flour and eggs. Enough to make a few pies and soups to freeze, he had noticed that Lyn had a quite large freezer cabinet for such a tiny flat. Then he bought fruit, biscuits, long life milk drinks by the tray, anything to build her up and increase the milk supply for her daughter.

*

Sebastian had just kept walking, unaware of what he was doing or where he was going. He had long gone past analysing what was going on, why the police were asking him questions, if Amos had stolen his experimental samples, if they could kill or injure. He just kept going, moving past people, not really seeing them, the drone of the traffic and the sound of his battered converses slapping the pavement the only things he noticed.

Eventually he had to stop. He was shattered and he noticed he was actually shaking from exhaustion and hunger. He looked about him. He had just past the old bingo hall. It had become a strip club for a while after it closed, and now it was a church, one of those new, loud types of church, lots of hand clapping and waving. Give him choral evensong at Christchurch any day. Once, judging from the architecture, it had been a cinema, back in the thirties. Francesca had started to worship there after Peter stupidly killed himself.

Francesca. She lived near by.

He made his way to Percy Street. The house looked locked up, curtains still closed, despite it now coming up to nine in the morning. He knocked but there was no answer. He thought about ringing and realised he’d left his phone in his room. He picked up a handful of gravel. Her bedroom was at the front, third floor. He wasn’t all that good at throwing and hoped he would miss the second floor windows. He did and soon the window opened, a sleepy Francesca, no eyeliner, blonde hair unbrushed rather than ironed smooth.

“What the...? Sebastian? What are you doing?”

“Couldn’t sleep. I’ve walked for hours.”

“Hold on. Go round to the Magic Cafe. Get breakfast. I’ll meet you there. We can talk there. It’s not safe here. Too many people.”

*

After James had taken everything back to the flat, he remembered he was supposed to charge his boss’ phone, so did so whilst unpacking the shopping and having a better shower, shaving, and putting on his new clothes. Then he grabbed the bags of baby things, Lyn’s overnight bag, and the bag with the jeans and shirt and underwear and shoes for Robbie, and went back to the hospital. The mornings on maternity allowed no visitors except the fathers, which James thought was a bit unnecessarily harsh on a mother with no partner, like poor Lyn. They took the bags and assured her that Miss Lewis would receive them. 

He found Robbie waiting for him in the cafe he had found in the night. This time it was open, and Robbie sat, bleary eyed, nursing a cup of tea. His fifth, by the look of the table. He had also had a fry up and an orange.

“Trying to stay awake,” he said around a yawn. “Found me then?”

“Yeah, I took a wild guess. Everything okay?”

“Lyn’s awake. Bit groggy and sore. She took one look at Emma – that’s her name, by the way, Emma...”

“It’s a lovely name.”

“I think so. She took one look at her and she’s smitten, you could see it. I don’t think she’ll be pining away anymore; she’s got someone to live for. She ate a good breakfast, anyhow, and tried to breastfeed. They let me stay 'til about nine o’clock then kicked me out. Did you get the stuff to her?”

“All delivered Sir. And this is for you. I noticed a shower room a floor down, next to the Gents. I’m sure no-one would notice if you used it.”

“Oi! You saying I stink?"

“I was thinking it might freshen you up.”

“Aye, it might. How much do I owe? For the baby clothes and that?”

James shook his head. “It’s on me Sir.”

“Robbie. I told the nurse you were my boyfriend, not my sergeant.”

“I’m both.”

“Aye, talking of which. Did you sort my phone out?”

“Fourteen voice mails from a Kate Stewart. E-mails from Balliol and Natural Sciences. Text from Laura Hobson. Voicemail from Innocent. One from a Professor Ingrid Osgood.”

“Not much then?” Robbie grinned. “God, I’m shattered. Have you booked us a room?”

“On my to do list Sir.”

“Get me out of here James, get me in that hotel and let me crash. I’ll need you to do a few things while I sleep. Then wake me up at three for visiting time, okay?”

“Of course.”

*

When Francesca arrived at the vegetarian cafe around the corner from her home Sebastian wasn’t there. Wretched boy! She loved him because he was Peter’s brother, and as Peter’s twin, was supposed to be identical. Superficially they were but Peter had always looked great, whereas Sebastian managed to look homeless and sleazy half the time, his hair a mess, his clothes ragged. Despite his increasing flirtation with drugs of all kinds, Peter had always looked fantastic. He had always looked to her like a movie star, or maybe a boy from a boy band. He had had great hair.

It was as she stormed back out in a mood she saw him, curled up on the step of the house next-door, hidden behind a parked blue transit van. She went over to him and kicked him lightly on the shoulder.

“Uh! What!” Sebastian sat up and ran a hand over his cheek and hair. “I did fall asleep at last. You should have left me.”

“To sleep on the street? Like a druggie?”

“I am not a druggie!” Sebastian practically snarled. He stood up and remembered how much his brother loved this young woman, had planned to ask her to marry him. “You know that. I’m not keen on any nasty chemicals in my body, or any substance really. Do you think I’d put up with this insomnia if I could swallow a couple of prescription sleeping pills?”

“No. I know. Come and eat, Sebastian. Why didn’t you wait inside for me? The squashy sofas are empty. You could have bought a coffee and slept there, in the safety and comfort of indoors.”

“Couldn’t. No money. Left it all in my room.”

“Phone too, yes? I tried calling you half an hour ago.”

“Yes. I only meant to go for a little dawn walk to clear my head. I’ve been so stressed.”

“Come inside and tell me then. I’ll buy you breakfast.”

*

Lewis had fallen asleep in the car, so James had left him to sleep while he had checked them in, and guided a very groggy Lewis into the room, helped him peel off his suit, shirt, shoes and socks, and climb into bed, tucking the quilt around him. Lewis was asleep before his head hit the pillow and didn’t notice James kissing him gently. Instead, he had begun to snore.

James had stood at the end of the bed a few moments, reflecting on how the last time he had seen his boss like that, in fact the only other time he had seen him so tired and stressed and old-looking, had been after James had been discharged from the hospital following that Night. The night of being drugged and raped, over and over, James mentally amended, chastising himself, he had decided not to let the word have any power of him, it made him too much a victim to be scared to think it. It was how he had dealt with the abuse, as a child. He wasn’t a child anymore.

He supposed that then too Lewis had sat beside a bed at hospital, his bed. Watching over him, looking after him. He, himself, had such a hazy recollection of events. Waking up naked in the allotments, the world blurred and terrifying. But getting to Lewis’ flat? He had no idea how he had accomplished that! Sadly, to his shame, he did remember kissing his boss. But could he recall anything of the drive to the rape suite and checking him in as a victim and not an officer? No, frustratingly, he couldn’t remember a single detail. He remembered giving his initial statement and he remembered, all to vividly, the forensic exam, he remembered that far too well! But after that, it was a blur of faces and smells and noises, he didn’t remember getting to the JR, being examined or treated. He remembered nothing until waking up, bathed and clean, wearing a hospital gown, Lewis sitting beside him. Really it had been just like before, after Zoe – no Feardorcha - had drugged him and tried to kill him. Except that time he hadn’t been in so much pain, just a cut cheek and smoke inhalation. James winced, as if his body remembered the pain caused by the rapes and beatings he had took while drugged. His body remembered, even if he couldn’t.

But he had to pull himself together. He didn’t have time to dwell on the past, on the negative, when there were so many amazing positives going on in the present.

Robbie Lewis loved him. That was an amazing, treasured fact. And he put up with him, all his foibles and fears and all. And now Robbie Lewis was a grandfather. James got goose bumps just thinking about that tiny, tiny, new life that he had seen lying in her grandfather’s arms. Then there was poor Lyn, who was worn-out, heartbroken, exhausted, and malnourished, with months of carrying her break-up and pregnancy alone while he had monopolised her father's attention. Which was why he had food to cook as Robbie’s friend and calls to make as Lewis’ sergeant. He had to bury himself in the business of day-to-day work and existence and then the flashbacks would go again, that he had learnt over the past three months.

*

Sebastian, to his surprise, found he could eat when Francesca placed the plate in front of him. It smelt so good, the fried eggs, mushrooms, veggie sausages and rashers, baked beans and toast. She can also got him a large coffee, black,

“To keep you awake. Eat then tell me,” she had said.

After he had finished she bought him a latte and a piece of fruitcake and sat back, sipping her hot chocolate, and waited. He just crumbled his cake.

“Leave it, it’s for later. Tell me why you couldn’t sleep.”

“Amos. These other people you know.”

“I don’t know them. They get food parcels and support from The Door. I volunteer. I think that a couple might have died that I’ve taken food and stuff to. That’s not knowing them, is it?”

“No. Do you think there is a link? The police must do. You said the police were there.”

“One youngish CID sergeant was there. Could be about a dealer killing another one. Could be about that firebombing. Might be about all these overdoses. Mother Superior asked me yesterday evening if I had known that American student. I said no.”

“You met him.”

“As a bloke who lived opposite you. Why are you so bothered? We went through this when Amos died. That’s nearly two weeks ago!”

“You told me to say nothing.”

“Do you want your research stopped? Blamed?”

“My research isn’t to kill people! And I’ve checked Fran, I’ve checked so many times. No one has stolen the smallest sample, especially not Amos.”

“But I keep explaining, it might be blamed or just lose its funding in a media panic. I explained about how the media can whip everything up into a frenzy and governments and organisations just panic and shut down innocent things.”

“Yes Fran, but... what if... no, it can’t. Even if someone were stealing my modified heroin it wouldn’t kill. It’s just a very rough prototype of gene manipulation. It couldn’t.”

“Of course not Seb. You need to calm down.”

“But you are right about it coming back to me. An Inspector came to visit me yesterday, and then you told me about CID being at St. Mary’s and St. Jim’s... what did he look like, the young sergeant?”

“Um. Tall. Very tall. Blond. Posh voice.”

“Almost as blond as you?”

“I suppose. Oh yes, he had lip-gloss and eye shadow on. I thought that a bit weird, in the police. More a media or businessman meterosexual. Police is a bit, well macho.”

“The nice gay one. Sergeant Hathaway. He was so nice the day Amos died.”

“Probably is nice. He offered to carry some boxes for me.”

“Bet you didn’t let him?”

“No.”

“But don’t you see Fran, Inspector Lewis, who interviewed me yesterday, he’s Hathaway’s boss. There is a connection to how Amos died and the others.”

“You still don’t know that. I hope you didn’t tell that bloody Inspector too much.”

“He knew stuff. I had to.”

“What stuff?”

“Science stuff Fran, stuff only Keller and I know.”

“Then he was bluffing. Jesus, Sebastian, why do you always take things so much on face value? Did you tell him your ideas for curing people?”

“Well... yes. Sorry. Why was that wrong?”

*

While the pies and quiches baked in the oven, and the soups, casseroles and curry bubbled on the hob, James turned his mind to work.

Firstly, he got the most dreaded out of the way. He called this mysterious Kate Stewart from UNIT, using Lewis’ call sign, feeling stupid, like a character from a comic book.

He dialled the number and was put straight through to the voice mail,

“This is Detective Sergeant Hathaway calling on behalf of Detective Inspector Lewis, Thames Valley Wolf Six. He apologises for the delay in responding. His daughter went into early labour yesterday. She has no partner and no other family. He will ring you as soon as he is able to later today...”

James was about to hang up when there was a click on the line and he realised he had been monitored and listened to.

“James Hathaway. How good to put a voice to the name and photo. I trust all went well with Lewis’ daughter? This is Kate Stewart, by the way.”

“Yes Ma’am. That is, she had a long and difficult time, but both mother and baby are doing well now. Lewis stayed with her, throughout. He’s catching up on his sleep Ma’am. He will ring you as soon as he wakes.”

“I would like to be able to say Lewis can take as long as he likes, but I think you’ll agree these deaths have gone on for long enough. We need to act fast as we can to prevent more deaths. Besides, I’ve already tasked Osgood with assisting this Dr. Laura Hobson with her research into what the additive is, plus to do some digging of her own in the Departments of Chemistry at both Oxford and Brookes Universities.

“Osgood will be arriving in Oxford at 10:16 tomorrow from London. In the absence of Lewis you must pick her up at the station and drive her to her hotel, then introduce her to this Hobson. No mention must be made of our involvement, nor the funding of her requested DNA profiles. I’m sure I can rely on you to think a suitable cover story.”

“Ma’am.”

“Good. And Lewis should by now have names for me. Check his e-mails and notes and find the appropriate ones and forward them to me. It should be in his contacts in his Blackberry.”

“I’m not sure I...”

“You have his phone. No doubt you have access to his notes and files too. You can figure it out. I understand you are a bright boy.”

“Uh...?” Hathaway began, but,

She’d hung up.


	10. From Manchester to Oxford

James had been driving for nearly two hours, it was just approaching six o’clock in the morning, and he knew he would be soon hitting rush hour traffic. If he were lucky he would make it through the tangle of motorways through Birmingham and make it onto the M40 before he hit the worst of it.

He’d got up at before four that morning, groggy after two nights of little sleep, the previous one spent in a waiting room, spread across chairs at that. He’d downed the caffeine drink he’d smuggled into the hotel room – he knew Robbie would lecture him if he saw it – and stumbled into a very cold shower. After that, it was straight onto the road.

Yesterday had been a busy day, a roller coaster of emotions. He wasn’t sure, really, how he felt about being so involved with the Lewis family. ‘We’re together now, pet’, Robbie had said more than once, and yes, it was all he had dreamed of, being with Robbie Lewis. If it weren’t for his post-rape trauma, everything would be, if not perfect, then absolutely fine, he was sure. He trusted Robbie with his childhood repressions, guilt and memories. He knew Robbie would look after him. But Lyn was only two years older than him. Robbie was now a grandfather. And that really brought home the age difference.

Then there was this black ops thing for UNIT, which actually sounded more serious that it was – Detective Inspector Lewis was one of several UNIT ‘sleepers’ in various police forces in the country, and presumably others, that the Unified Intelligence Taskforce could activate if and when they needed police cooperation with an investigation and likewise the ‘sleeper’ could flag something ‘other’ that fell into UNIT’s purview. He knew and understood that. But he wished he didn’t have to. He wanted the blissful ignorance of most coppers that ‘other’ people, ‘visitors’, as it were, did not only ‘visit’ or even reside here, but required policing. He really hadn’t wanted to know about God’s other creations, it was such a struggle to square with Biblical and church teaching. His own, he unfortunately knew, natural, sexuality, made that hard enough already. He tried desperately not to think about it. Besides, as Lewis kept informing him, much of UNIT’s work dealt with the human, the threats coming from weird and unusual experiments and technologies not backed or known by governments or institutions that could pose a threat to life or society.

He was also exhausted by the sheer practicalities of all he had done. Lewis, after he had slept, apart from reading some e-mails and sending one to this Kate Stewart, had wanted to spend all the hours he could with Lyn and her baby. The hospital had planned, space permitting, to keep her in for at least a week, until her strength was up. Psychologists and social workers had been sent for. PND tests carried out. All of it to Robbie’s increasing anger and frustration. Still, by the end of the day, although Lyn was ticking lots of boxes that put her at an increased risk of post-natal depression, the loss of her own mother a huge red marker on its own, she had been discharged back into the care of the midwives and then her health visitor and GP, in a matter of hours. James had wondered if they would have been so quick to do so if she had come from a poorer, uneducated, background, and not have actually worked in the same hospital.

After he’d left Lewis asleep in the hotel room, James had texted Hobson that mother and baby were doing well, despite some difficulties, then had e-mailed Innocent the same, informing her he had stayed on in Manchester to help but was returning the following morning should she need him. He had then gone through Lewis’ notes, trying to find what Kate Stewart had wanted. There was an e-mail from Innocent, referring Lewis to South East Covert Operations Unit at Horsham in West Sussex, with a name for him and Stewart to contact highlighted in bold. That was worrying, as Lewis had said nothing to him about going undercover, or sending someone – surely only him? Innocent had only sanctioned the use of his sergeant in this investigation. There had been also e-mails from the Master of Balliol and the Director of Chemistry, plus one from the Head of Biochemistry and another from a Professor Keller, but Lewis had encrypted all of them. He had no idea Lewis knew how to do such things, and was beginning to think this befuddled older man uncomfortable with increasing computer technology was all a front. Maybe to hide the UNIT connection? Or maybe to get his sergeant and others to do all the boring data entry to HOLMES 2 and the PNC during cases and during the conclusion write-ups for CPS. Lewis’ own notes were a minefield of spider diagrams, flow charts, and his own personal abbreviations. But they always had been. It seemed he had a query on a research student, a fellow, and a second research team at Harvard, which seemed a little far to bother with addicts in East Oxford. 

He hadn’t known what to do, and it had then been time to fetch Lewis, wake him and drive him to the hospital. He had told Lewis of the Kate Stewart instructions and asked after what names she wanted and how to access the e-mails.

“It’s a test. I get the feeling she’s like that. The question you have to ask yourself is, do you want to pass?”

James, who always passed tests and exams with flying colours, was not sure he did.

“Don’t worry yourself about it, pet. I’ll sort it later. There’s a practical thing you can do. I assumed we’d be doing it together, but I hadn’t realised our Lyn would be so poorly.”

“What’s that?”

“Put up the cot.”

So James tried his hardest to after he had returned to Lyn’s flat. But it had been proving impossible, needing someone to hold the sides while a second person was to screw the frame together. As soon as he managed one side, the other fell off the frame on the floor. He was fit to swear and stomp and have a general tantrum over the bloody thing when Lyn’s doorbell had rung.

When he answered the door he had found a tall, skinny, guy at the door. Not quite as tall as James, and certainly not as thin. He had a forward facing haircut of light brown hair that accentuated his cheekbones and deep chocolate brown eyes, but his otherwise handsome featured were marred somewhat by his overlarge Roman nose. He had obviously come from work, as he wore light blue scrubs covered with a hooded checked jacket. His eyes narrowed suspiciously at the sight of James.

“Who are you? Where’s Lyn? Does Lyn Lewis still live here?”

“Who are you and how do you know Lyn?” James demanded. Something must stick with training, James mused, as although the other’s man’s hackles were clearly up and he was defensive and possessive about Lyn for some reason, he answered immediately, despite James not being in uniform or showing his warrant card.

“I’m Tim Heights. I’m... a friend. Well, her ex. Is she okay?”

“She’s in hospital. The baby was born yesterday. Are you still friends? She needs as many as she can get.”

“Um... yeah. That is I like to think that... is she okay though? I heard rumours, which is why I came round... the baby is early, isn’t it? Who are you anyway? You’re not one of her nurse friends and you’re definitely not that bloody Jeremy.”

“I should hope not. I’m DS James Hathaway. Lyn’s father is my boss. I drove him up to Manchester.” For some reason, James felt too ashamed and nervous to come out to this man. He didn’t know him, didn’t know whether he was accepting, what his attitude might be. But he had observed that he was still in love with Lyn and Lyn needed someone to look after her when she was discharged. Lewis and he were in the middle of a serious investigation that couldn’t just be dropped. Nor could it be handed over to another team, as it was a co-investigation with UNIT. Lewis was fairly certain UNIT would just take over and it would be a lot more conspicuous and far less detecting would be done, far more rendition and interrogation. And that could not happen, as far as both of them were concerned.

But neither could leaving poor Lyn with a new born baby with such a low birth weight on top recovering from surgery, with a huge abdominal scar healing that required her to do no lifting. He wasn’t sure poor tired Robbie had taken in all the implications that his daughter needed. If he had, he wouldn’t have slept those few hours, he was sure.

“Oh. Right. Yeah, I’ve heard of you. Lyn approves of you. She says she doesn’t know how you’ve done it, but you’ve helped Robbie so much. He was a mess, you know, when he went abroad?”

“M’mm,” James replied vaguely. Then he looked at Tim appraisingly. “Are you any good at flat pack furniture?”

“So-so, why?”

“I’m struggling one-handed with the cot.”

“I’ll help. Sure.”

Tim and James bonded over incomprehensible instructions translated from Swedish and then coffee, James filling in Tim over the caesarean and the length of labour, and Tim texting mutual friends to let them know the situation.

“With us doing shift work we can probably fix up a rota,” Tim said.

“Well, I’ve filled the freezer with a month’s worth of home cooked meals, that should help too.”

“Yeah, nice one. Above and beyond the call of duty, I would say.”

James shrugged. “It’s okay. I like to cook.”

When it was time to pick up Lewis, Tim came too. As they descended the stairs a young Nigerian woman was ascending, dressed in the same blue nurse’s uniform as Lyn’s.

“Tim!”

“Vi!”

“Who’s this?”

“Vi, this is James, he’s Lyn’s Dad’s sergeant. James, this is Vivian. She works with Lyn.”

They shook hands. Vi was beautiful, James thought objectively, with perfect clear skin and hair braided to perfection, gold thread woven into the braids, each ending with a bead. The image was not as beautiful as it could have been, the braids all tied back in one flat plait. His cousin would envy her so much; as she had gone through a stage of trying and failing to wear her fine, blonde, hair in cornrows or braids while an art student.

“So, it’s true, the baby is born?” Vi demanded. “Are you going to see her?” James loved the way she grasped the situation. “Can I come too?”

“Um... yeah.”

“Is she okay?”

“C-section. Extremely tired and malnourished,” Tim answered.

“Oh God. I blame myself. I tried and tried to get her to eat. To finish work. Silly girl. She’s going to need a lot of looking after. I take it your boss isn’t staying long?”

“Well, he can’t...”

“Must be in the middle of a case, yes?”

“What makes you say that?”

“To bring his sergeant.”

“I am here more as a friend. But we are in the middle of a case. Murder.”

“Thought so. We need to get people organised.”

“I have...” Tim began.

“Tsk! A few texts and calls won’t crack it.”

During the drive to the hospital, Vi sat in the back on her smart phone, setting up an events page on facebook and marshalling every one of Lyn’s friends and work colleagues in Manchester, setting up a rota to look after her, getting people to log when they were free over the following month. By the time they had arrived she had enough details to go home and work out a rota, announcing on the page she would message everyone with their ‘shifts’ of Lyn and Emma sitting. The following day, after posting a picture of Emma, she had even more offers, from those at work the time she started recruiting, and had closed it down to preserved Lyn’s privacy.

By the time they reached the hospital, James has also decided that if he were bisexual, he could easily fall in love with Vi!

*

James stopped as soon as he reached the M40, at Chesterton Green services. He was desperate for the loo, a smoke and a coffee, in that order. Once seated at a table with a huge Americano he wondered if he ought to get breakfast, but he still felt too sick. The services were quite empty at that time of the morning, mostly drivers of articulated trucks from all over Europe and beyond. James had taken the seat in the furthest corner and found himself subconsciously shrinking into his seat. He was annoyed at himself. These were all nice guys. Probably. Not rapists. Not the Roschekovs...

He put his coffee down. He had started to shake, and he had spilled it over his hand and onto his thigh. A man had just walked past him, looking very similar to Sergei, talking in an East European accent.

“He’s in prison! You’re fine,” James muttered to himself. “You’re safe.” He wished Lewis were with him. He wished he didn’t get these panic attacks from time to time. What kind of policeman got scared of truckers or beefy looking guys with shaved heads and tattoos?

Tattoos?

Yuri had tattoos. He suddenly knew that. James shuddered and put his hands over his eyes. He had to get out of there.

Shaking, James stood and, leaving his coffee, walked out of the cafe area and straight back to the gents, where he threw up his coffee. A man asked him if he was okay, but the thought of speaking to a trucker in the loos was too terrifying so he ignored him and made it back to his car before he collapsed completely. Once in the car he gulped at air, trying to breath normally and stop the sobs that were threatening to escape.

He wanted to phone Lewis, but it was still so early, and he needed his sleep.

Once he finally had managed to stop shaking or feel as if he would burst into tears he hit the road again. To distract himself he remembered finally meeting Lyn the previous afternoon, accompanied by Tim and Vi.

Lyn had been sitting up in bed, her father in a chair next to her. She had just finished breastfeeding as they arrived, and handed Emma to Robbie. 

“Tim!”

“Um, hi. Sorry, I just wanted to make sure you were okay and...”

“Yeah. Um. Thanks. I’m okay. Are you?”

“Been a bit worried about you.”

“Lyn,” Vi had interrupted. “I don’t want to crash this awkward reunion and ruin your precious time with your Dad, but why didn’t you get in touch?”

“I’m been a bit, you know...”

“Sure.” Vi had sat down on the bed and given Lyn a gentle hug. “I’ve been in touch with all your friends here, okay. Don’t you worry about a thing. We’re all on shift work so we can all take care of you. I’m sorting it, okay. Let me know when your Dad has to go back and we’ll sort out visiting and shopping, okay? I’ve got to go now, to get to the childminder, but I’ll be back tomorrow for a cuddle with the baby, okay?"

“Sure. Yes. Thanks Vi. You’re brilliant.”

“So people keep telling me,” and with another quick hug, Vi had gone, with Tim close on her heels after an embarrassed,

“I just wanted to see you and the baby were okay. I’ll visit again, if that’s okay?”

“I think. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

Tim had smiled shyly and shook his head. “Bye,” he had muttered awkwardly, and then he was gone too, chasing Vi to the door.

“You must be James,” Lyn had then said. “Thanks for all you’ve done. Dad told me about the shopping, and said you put the cot up.”

“You’ll have to thank Tim for that. I was at my wit’s end when he knocked on the door.”

“Oh. Right. And Vi?”

“Came as we were leaving.”

“I thought everyone hated me.”

“Not in the least. Vi was organising a rota in the car on the way over here. You’ll be the best looked after new mum on the planet.”

“Vi is very organised.”

“I had noticed,” James said, grabbing the second seat and sitting down aside it, wrong way around. “Hello at last.”

“We’ve spoken on the phone. Although then I thought you were Dad’s sergeant.”

“I am.”

“Not just. You’re going to be Emma’s step-Grandad, aren’t you?”

“That is not even remotely funny!”

“It’s not meant to be,” Lyn had said gently.

“It is, a tiny bit,” Lewis had said, finally looking up from staring down at his sleeping granddaughter in his lap. James had scowled at his boss while Lyn had laughed.

“Do you want a hold James?”

James had looked at the tiny, helpless baby and shook his head. “I might break her.”

“Don’t be silly,” Robbie had said, and gently and carefully put her in his arms. “Hold her head, that’s it.”

“I do know how to hold a baby, you know.”

“Of course you do, priest training, for baptisms, no doubt.”

James had given Robbie a look. “That. But more just... Catholic family, you know...”

“You have family! You do surprise me I always thought you’d sprung, fully formed...”

“Like Venus, maybe, rising up in a shell from the sea?” Lyn had offered, mischievously. 

“Don’t you get smarter than your old man, young lady. I get enough of wise cracks from him there!”

“I just meant, she’s so tiny,” James had said, barely daring to breath. “I have cousins and lots of second ones, too, I have been to their christenings. She weighs nothing at all. Here, go back to your Grandpa.”

“Thank you again James.”

“For what?”

“Driving up here. Getting the ambulance. Shopping.”

“And cooking,” Robbie had added,

“Cooking?”

“Yeah. Stocked up your freezer with lots of his lovely home cooked grub, haven’t you pet? You wait, this lad cooks like an angel.”

“Thank you again James.”

“It’s nothing. I like cooking. Its just basics, a casserole, a stew, a couple of soups, some individual chicken pies and cheese and onion flans. I bought you lots of long life milk shakes and tinned fruit as well, plus frozen veg in the freezer to go with it all. You don’t want to be worrying about cooking in the first few weeks, do you, and the little one needs you to eat well.”

“Oh wow! I love you James.”

Robbie had beamed. “Good, coz I never give up hope that he’ll be your step-father one day.”

“Uh!” James has stumbled out, growing pink on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Robbie had obviously noticed, because he changed the subject,

“But, alas, he’s just me sergeant. And as such, anything to report?”

James had told him about the e-mails and messages from Innocent and Stewart that concerned the possibility of going undercover – here James managed a meaningful glare at his boss – along with Osgood’s list of science facilities both academic and business she needed to investigate and then the possible follow up on the Harvard connection and the funding of Sebastian Kettering’s research. James said all of it as cryptically as he could in front of Lyn. He didn’t even need to say much at all, as Lyn said,

“I’ll be fine Dad. Vi is going to sort everyone. You need to get home and catch that murderer.”

“I’ll stay one more day love. Innocent gave me two to three days leave.”

“I have to get back for tomorrow morning. I’m under orders. I’ll catch the train tonight.”

“You’ll do no such thing. I need to be properly debriefed and you need sleep. You can take my car in the morning. Then come back for me. Alright?”

Lyn had smiled at James, “You’ve been given your orders sergeant.”

“I have.” James has smiled back.

*

James stopped for a second time, as the traffic leading to Bicester started to build up. He came off at Cherwell Valley and bought himself a sausage sandwich and another coffee, this time a latte with extra sugar, he was beginning to feel shaky. This time there were more people about than just solitary lorry drivers, businessmen and women in suits, a few tourist families, even a coach party of elderly people on route for somewhere for a day trip. James felt calmer, he had tried the locking technique he had always used with his childhood abuse memories with his half flashback, and so far the barrier in his mind seemed to be holding. To think a few months ago he had told Lewis, and others, that he wanted to know all that had happened to him, all that they had done to him. With the few flashes of memory he now got, he was certain he was better off never really knowing. He had learnt to live with the black hole in his mind, and these flashes and impressions did little to fill it, only create anxiety.

However, before he could think about it, he had sent a text to Lewis asking him if he were awake and could he ring. Not only did he want to talk to Robbie about his almost flash back and panic attack, he wanted to ask him, as his boss, more about Stewart and if he had any idea who this Osgood was.

*

Lewis was already on the phone. True, he wasn’t up, but sitting up in bed with a cup of tea beside him, but he was talking to Kate Stewart about the e-mail he had sent her the previous evening once he and James had left Lyn for the night.

“What do you mean? Some of the names are familiar? You mean, this kind of research before?”

“Not exactly, no. They have been used, according to the Black Files, as aliases.”

“Well, if it’s on the Black Files, you’re not going to share with me, are you?”

“No. But I am increasing your security level a tad, okay. It means you should be able to access our own computer files and cross reference them.”

“Oh aye, how?”

“We, like the police, value a secure connection, besides, we don’t want a laptop for secure access left on a tube anymore than you do. We leave than kind of carelessness to the government and military.”

“Of course. You telling me UNIT has it’s own system like HOLMES?”

“Yes, and you should, once I’ve given you clearance, be able to access it from any HOLMES 2 suite in any station you have access to.”

“That’ll be Kidlington HQ, St. Aldates and Cowley then. What’s it called?”

“DOCTOR. What else?”

Lewis snorted. “Of course. What’s it stand for then?”

“Documentation of Computer Terminal Online Reports. Yes, I know,” Kate sighed at Lewis laugh, “it’s an appalling backronym.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.”

“It serves. Shall we focus Inspector?”

“Right. So, you’re saying you’ll let me access secure information but not tell me over the phone.”

“Bearing in mind, the information and names you have gathered might just well be coincidental.”

“Don’t tend to believe in them.”

“It this case Lewis, it seems more likely than the alternative. But we must explore all avenues.”

“Isn’t the name of one of the sponsors a politician?”

“I believe he is a junior shadow minister for the Opposition, military spokemen or somesuch.”

“And has he declared his interests?”

“One thing at a time. The British miltary has shown no inclination in experimentation of drugs for combat or interrogation use since the early seventies or eighties. Knowing who the puppet master is will not get us closer to the puppets. And we need to stop the spread of the manipulated, altered, heroin as fast as possible. Likewise we need to understand what this additive is and what its purpose might be. To that end, I’m sending Professor Ingrid Osgood to work with your Dr. Hobson. While in Oxford she can also, using her UNIT pass, check out both student labs at Oxford and Brookes, and the hospitals, and also, she can check out the Oxford Science Parks, Harwell, and Culham too. In the meantime, I want you and your sergeant undercover among the addicts.”

Lewis sighed heavily.

“It was your suggestion, and probably the only one that will get us any evidence at all. Take a secure laptop with you, keep it safe at all costs, log all you can to HOLMES 2 and DOCTOR. I’m having a meeting with your Chief Superindendant later this morning to clear this. She’s not very happy about all this, I can tell you.”

“She doesn’t like UNIT.”

“Noted.”

“And I’m not happy to be going undercover.”

“After just becoming a grandfather, I’m sure you’re not. but I think you agree this might be the fastest way to trace everything back to its sources?”

“Aye,” Lewis sighed again.

*

In her office, in the Tower of London, Kate Stewart looked again at the secure e-mail the Thames Valley Inpector had sent her,

“Responding to your query, I have been able to find out as follows

“Sebastian Kettering, graduate student investigating addiction, using heroin in his experiments, supposedly getting it under licence from Thames Valley Police and the Home Office, but not sure the amounts he has tallies with the amounts logged out by TVP and HO.  
His supervisor, Professor Emil Keller – Research fellow and tutor, Balliol, Oxford  
Also following similar research, Professor Thascales – Senior Lecturer in biochemistry at Harvard, Cambridge, Mass.,  
Funding of S. Kettering’s post-grad doctorate and research in ‘addiction and addictive substances, the bio-chemical responses in the brain to certain, isolated properties of plant derived drugs’ as follows:  
The Institute for Christian-Science Partnerships, the Right Reverend Mr. K. Magister  
Anglo-French Pharmaceuticals Ltd, CEO Gilles Estram  
Saxon Enterprises

“There is no evidence linking Kettering or Keller, and I’ve questioned both and can’t see a motive or reason in Keller. Kettering might have motive – his twin brother died of a heroin overdose, but he genuinely seems ignorant of the facts and distressed by the deaths. I also don’t know if he knows where Keller is getting the funding from – hadn’t asked when you flagged it.

“Do you wish me to bring in Keller or Kettering for questioning?”

Stewart hit the reply,

“No. Not as yet. Proceed undercover as planned. Kettering and Keller are going nowhere. Let’s gather evidence to link them before they act. If there is no coincidence, we must act with extreme caution.

“Your Silver Status is now active. Code names, passcodes and indentifiers all remain the same.”

She typed quickly, then pressed send.

 

*

In bed, Lewis opened the e-mail on his phone, held it far from his eyes to focus, and sighed deeply. He really didn’t want this.

But someone had to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some people, the culprit might now be obviously. Or is it just mere coincidence? Or the author playing games. H'm? Or rather, hm hm hm... ;)


	11. Chapter 11

Hathaway had already reached the Oxford ring road and was skirting the rush hour and tourist traffic of north Oxford by taking the Hinksey by-pass by the time Lewis called him back. Like a good officer, his phone was naturally hands free.

“Hathaway.”

“It’s me love.”

“Sir.”

“James!”

“I’m at work. Well, almost.” 

“Well, I’m not. Well, not quite. Are you okay pet?”

“Um...”

“You are alone?”

“Yeah. I’ve not got to the station.”

“Police or train?”

“If I have time I was going to see Innocent, but as it is, I doubt I’ll have time.”

“You called pet? Said you needed to talk. You... didn’t sound too happy?”

“I... I... truth is Robbie, I had a flashback, I’m fine. Now. Promise. I’m tired, that’s all.”

“Sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Well, if you’re sure...”

“I am. Why?”

“Thing is James...”

“Yes Sir?”

“I might need you to go undercover with me. And for that you’ll have to be assessed. I need you to be strong. I know you’ll be fine, but Innocent says that May will... might... forget it. You’ll do fine.”

“What if I don’t want to go undercover?”

“You’ll do damn well as you’ll told sergeant!”

“Um... Yes Sir. Shit. The traffic, must go Sir,” James lied, hanging up. It wasn’t like Lewis to be so presumptive. Well, yes, as an inspector, he supposed he could be. James couldn’t decide if Lewis treating him almost normally as his sergeant was a good thing or not. And he still hadn’t a clue about this undercover business. Undercover as what? To determine what? Where the cut heroin was coming in, he supposed. But how? He decided to not think about it until Innocent had formally briefed him. Until then it was only a possibility. Innocent and Stewart, he supposed, this shadowy UNIT figure in the background, Lewis’ second line manager in this investigation, it seemed. And to be his, too, if Lewis was right about these hints of his being tested were correct.

*

Hathaway was approaching the rail station when Lewis called again.

“Hathaway.”

“It’s me. I owe you an apology. I appreciate you’re busy now, but how I spoke to you was unforgivable as your inspector and even more unforgivable as your friend. Or more. Which is why I’m saying sorry.”

James could think of nothing to say.

“James?”

“Yes. Here.”

“What I should have said was I’m proud of you. Whatever flashback you had, you dealt with it alone, tired and alone, in a strange place. Tell me you didn’t flash while driving?”

“No Sir. I’d stopped for coffee. Everyone in the service station seemed to be a lorry driver apart from me.”

“That took courage James. I am proud of you, love.”

“Thank you.”

“Forgive me?”

James snorted. “Of course I do. You have a lot on your mind. Lyn. The case. And becoming a grandparent, as I said last night, must make missing Val... Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry. You can mention her. And you’re right, I am thinking of her. A lot. So is our Lyn. But this case; it’s so bloody damn complicated!”

“Well, is it Sir? Someone is cutting the heroin. It’s killing people. The what and why are immaterial. We just need to get to who it is, and where, to stop it. Worry about the what and the why after we’ve found them with evidence and arrested them. We will make an arrest, won’t we?”

“Yup. Even if they’re not from... around here, as it were.”

“You promise? It will be our collar? Not some para-military quasi-scientific secret service’s?”

“Well, they might come and take our collar from us, but we’re on the ground, aren’t we?”

“I suppose so Sir...” James was doubtful, remembering the UNIT troops back in June out at Harwell. Lewis had hurried him out of the way then, and he had been – and was – very grateful for that.

“This’ll be human, mark my words, I’m sure it’s linked to that Sebastian Kettering’s research. Him or his tutor, that Keller. Right smarmy bastard, he is.”

“Why don’t we bring them in? Question them under caution?”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself. We have no evidence whatsoever.”

“Hence the going undercover?”

“Exactly James.”

“Sir, I’m at the bottom of Botley, I must...”

“Aye. I know. Good luck. And mind you tell me every single detail.”

“What of?”

“Of Hobson and this scientific advisor woman. Hobson won’t want anyone trampling over her investigation any more than I would. Every detail, mind. Oh, I wish I were there. I’d love to see Laura’s face.”

*

Hathaway pulled up at the station at coming up to quarter past ten, so just pulled into a bus bay rather than trying to find a place in the short-term stay car park. Several people stared at him pointedly as he got out, one rolling his eyes and tutting and a teenage girl glared at him meaningfully and walked towards him. She took out a notebook from her bag as he walked past her up the stairs.

As he entered the concourse a woman came through the barrier, struggling with the ticket reader, automatic gate, and her suitcase. She came straight up to him, wheezing heavily. Her dark hair was pulled off her face in a functional ponytail and she was dressed for comfort and conventionality in dark tailored trousers and a baggy knitted cotton sweater and expensive, stylish flat worker boots. She had an equally functional leather satchel as her handbag. However, she also had an over large striped woollen scarf, that was not only inappropriate for the heat, but simply far too long to be practical.

“Detective Sergeant Hathaway?” she asked, before starting to cough and pulling out an inhaler from her pocket and taking a few short puffs.

“Um. Yes. Hi.” Hathaway automatically took her suitcase. “Professor Osgood I presume?”

“Yes.” She started to wheeze again as she followed him out and down the steps. “Sorry. Damn asthma.”

“Welcome to Carbon Mon-Oxford,” Hathaway said dryly.

“I’m okay.”

The teenager with the notebook was waiting for Hathaway at the bottom of the steps.

“Excuse me. You do know this is a bus bay, don’t you, mate?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“And buses can’t get in properly.”

“I wasn’t here long.”

A bus pulled in behind them, its back end sticking out and blocking the traffic of other buses and taxis as it tried and failed to get its front doors to the curb.

“See.”

“Sorry. Police business.” Hathaway flashed his badge at the girl.

“Well Sir, my mother still can’t get on the bus now.” The girl indicated a woman in the queue for the bus, sitting in a wheelchair. Everyone else queued up behind her just ignored her and went past her onto the bus. Hathaway thought he heard her mutter something like, ‘Damned cloaking device stuck on again,’ as she stabbed at a rather pathetic sounding horn on her powered wheelchair control loom. His mouth twitched in a small smile at her angry irony before saying with genuine contrition to the fierce girl,

“I didn’t think. Sorry.” He unlocked the door for Osgood before putting the suitcase in the boot. “I’ll get out of the way now.”

“Too late now. Sir.” The girl gave another stern stare before writing in her notebook. Hathaway towered over the stocky girl and saw that under a page entitled ‘Cars staying longer than two minutes’ was Lewis’ car number plate. She was now writing ‘CID pillock’ and then added an arrow lining his number to another column simply labelled ‘Idiots’.

James wanted to grin but decided not too, this girl seemed to mean business. Unlike the average person, particularly a young person, she had stayed calm and polite, if stern, and he could see her in another ten years in a stab vest, a uniform, calming drunks on a Saturday night. He hoped he hadn’t given her the wrong impression of the police as a future career.

She was also right. It was too late. He was stuck, blocked in by the bus pulled in at the cumbersome angle and the backlog of buses and taxis waiting for the bus to pull out. Which it did two minutes later, without the woman in the wheelchair and her scary daughter. The woman mouthed a sarcastic ‘thank you’ to him.

“Sorry about that,” Hathaway said to his passenger, who was breathing heavily.

“She’s right,” Osgood puffed. “What was wrong with the car park?”

“I was running late.”

“I could have waited. I hope you are not always so thoughtless.”

“Quite the opposite, I assure you. Where to? I’ve been informed I’m at your disposal.”

“I need to meet with Dr. Hobson ASAP. After that, I have appointments with the Heads of Chemistry of both Oxford proper and Brookes. Oh, and to check in. I will need to visit all the science parks, especially Harwell and Culham; we have those flagged. Any chance of being able to appropriate me a car from your boss? A...” Osgood pulled a notebook from her bag. She began to wheeze again.

“Inhaler?” Hathaway found himself suggesting after quite a few moments of her struggling to breath out.

*

Hathaway had e-mailed Hobson as soon as he knew he was to pick up the scientist from UNIT and introduce her to Hobson. After confirming her expected time of arrival he had received a terse response,

“My office in JR. 10.45. I can give her an hour only so don’t be late.”

Thus Hathaway, with some trepidation, parked in the Trauma Unit car park behind the morgue and led a wheezing Osgood inside and along what always felt like endless corridors, down a lift, and along more, barren, cold, grey concrete, corridors to Hobson’s lair. Or one of many. She had a smaller office she saw the grieving relatives of RTA victims and even smaller cupboards at Kidlington, St. Aldates and Cowley, but this was her main one. Close to the action, as it were, and were she also conducted her tutorials with her students. Twice, on route, alarmed, he had felt he needed to remind Osgood of her inhaler in her pocket.

“Dr. Hobson. This is Professor Osgood. From the government agency that...”

“You’re UNIT, aren’t you?”

“Um... I can’t really confirm or deny...”

“Yes then. Let’s not beat about the bush Osgood, you are from UNIT. Finally I’ve been taken far more seriously than I expected. But I’m sure the experimental cut will prove to be of human origin.”

“Of that you are probably right doctor, or at least, human agents will be involved in the creation and experimentation.”

“Your boss has a suspect?” Hathaway asked, alarmed. He remembered reading some discussion about a possible coincidence of names among Lewis’ e-mails.

“Not in the least sergeant. Don’t worry yourself. Or at least, I believe your Inspector has some suspects. But they seem to be completely human. We’re running enhanced background checks but certainly this student experimenting with heroin is completely human, from exactly where he claims to be.”

“You’ve found a student experimenting with heroin? Why wasn’t I told?”

“The Inspector hasn’t really had a chance to inform me yet doctor, let alone you or Innocent. He’s been preoccupied,” Hathaway placated.

“Of course. How is Lyn? The baby?”

“They’re both recovering well. Do you want to see a photo?” Hathaway asked, pulling his phone out from his trouser pocket.

“Oh yes!” Laura took a few seconds to look at the picture of the tiny baby in Robbie’s arms and feel slightly soppy and unfocused before she snapped herself out of it, “Right. You James, get yourself a coffee and be back here at 11.45 sharp. Osgood, let me show you the PM tox screens and imagines. This boy, what is his experimentation for?”

“He’s trying to isolate specific gene markers that create dependency in the original plants of certain drugs, heroin included, plus isolate hormonal and chemical markers in the brain that respond to them.”

“Nothing viral then?”

“Not as such, no. I will be interviewing his supervisor today or tomorrow. Hopefully.” At this, Osgood began to wheeze and choke.

“Inhaler!” Hathaway called from the door.

“Haven’t you gone yet?” Hobson demanded.

“Not as such. No. She needs reminding.” He nodded towards Osgood, taking a few sharp puffs.

“I am a doctor, you know. I might work with the dead, but I prefer my colleagues alive,” she said dryly before shoving him out of the door and closing it.

*

After taking Osgood to check in, leave her things, and also stop for a quick sandwich and cup of tea, he drove her straight to Parks Road and the Oxford University’s ancient Department of Natural Sciences building tucked behind the University and Pitt Rivers Museums where she was to meet the Head of Science, before going on to meet the Heads of Chemistry and Bio-chemistry at the newer, more functional buildings around the corner. These apparently were the courtesy meetings before any real investigation could begin. Kate Stewart preferred the direct and polite way of asking first. Turning up with the army could cause more harm than good. Hathaway was beginning to think that Lewis’ view of UNIT was either coloured by a couple of negative experiences or that the new, streamlined, twentieth first century UNIT had changed for the better. He had to remind himself of how the young African captain had been prepared to let that thing at Harwell kill him rather than let the Counsellor and Lewis feed it the salt it needed.

“I simply love the ugly, bold, statement of Keble College,” Osgood said as they parked in front of the University Parks and headed for their first meeting of the afternoon.

“You studied here?”

“Yes. Where else?”

Cambridge, thought Hathaway, but he didn’t say so. A theologian himself, what did he really know, but he believed Cambridge to be far stronger in the natural sciences.

Half the time Osgood appeared to be a bumbling idiot of a stereotyped scientist, forgetting to use her own inhaler, unable to find her notes or make eye contact, but as with Hobson, all that was dropped once in the meetings. Unlike Hobson, where she was direct and abrupt, with the head of the science she became charming and apologetic. Hathaway realised that currently Osgood had no intention of revealing her connection to Lewis’ previous visits so he kept quiet. He was introduced as her police liaison officer and promptly the flustered elderly academic was reassured that was a protocol and nothing more and please to ignore him. Hathaway did his best to be invisible, or as invisible as possible for a man as tall as he not invited to sit down. He leant on the door and tried to look bored and not menacing. He got the impression the poor Fellow had no clue as to why he had been visited by a DI and then a scientist from UNIT in the space of a week. He was bending over backwards to be helpful, although he had little to offer.

The Head of Biochemistry at the shiny new Department of Chemistry on South Parks Road was more on the ball, and could connect their interest to Kettering’s research area. He had all the details on where Kettering research material was obtained, receipts and contracts, and copies of the logs, both paper and computer. He suggested Osgood speak to the boy’s supervisor directly.

“This would be a... Professor... Keller...?” her voice trembled and she began to stutter. At this Osgood began to wheeze severely. Hathaway was alarmed.

“Inhaler!” he said. The Fellow poured her a glass of water while Hathaway repeated himself a little more loudly and slightly panicked.

“Fine. Okay,” Osgood said after a while with her inhaler and sip or two of water. “Of course, you are right Sir. If you can give me his numbers I will arrange to speak to him.” Hathaway still thought she sounded a little nervous.

Just then his phone rang. It was Innocent.

“Hathaway. Ma’am?” he mouthed his apologies to Osgood and the biochemistry head and stepped out of the study.

*

“Has Lewis briefed you to going undercover?” Innocent demanded.

Hathaway flinched inwardly. It was official then. “He mentioned something of the sort Ma’am.”

“I understand you are back in Oxford.”

“Yes Ma’am. I had intended to come in to brief you but I was caught in traffic.”

“Liaison. This Stewart person has seconded you for the purpose. I do know what my officers are doing James.”

“Of course Ma’am.”

“If you are to go undercover it needs to be as soon as possible. As soon as Lewis’ family leave ends, in fact. And you are going to need to undergo a full psyche evaluation before either I or Stewart can okay you going in with your inspector.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Understanding the urgency SEROCU have managed to squeeze you an appointment with their assessing psychologist this afternoon at 5pm.”

“It’s almost three now Ma’am.”

“Yes. So get going then. It shouldn’t take you more than two hours to get to Horsham in Sussex, should it?”

Hathaway sighed deeply. This was becoming a day of far, far too much driving for his liking. “No Ma’am. Am I supposed to just abandon the professor?”

“Oxford is a small city, I’m sure she can walk to her hotel.”

*

“Thank God I’m not meeting Keller now,” Osgood muttered, more to herself, as Hathaway informed her he had to leave her.

“I can call you a taxi,” he offered, “or there are a couple of DCs I can call. Providing they are not busy with real police investigation they will be pleased to ferry to what inteviews you have and even sit in with you.” He pulled a card from his pocket and wrote on it ‘DCs Mercer and Ngoti’ along with their mobile numbers.

“It’s fine. I can walk. I know the way. It’ll be nice, it’s a long time since I was in Oxford.”

“What are your plans?”

“I’ll walk to the city centre and get a bus to Brookes first. Then I shall get back to my hotel and report back to Kate, and then prepare for the interview with Keller tomorrow. I’m hoping to meet Dr. Hobson for supper to go through some important points on what the genetic fingerprinint and toxicology have produced so far, RTAs and murder permitting, I understand.”

“Dr. Hobson is always a busy woman.”

“And smart. Not every busy pathologist would have spotted this... whatever this is!” Osgood waved her hands in the air helplessly. “Good luck with this interview thing.”

“Thanks.”

*

As soon as he was on the M40 on route for the M25 and M23 Hathaway called Lewis.

“James? Hold on... Excuse me love. It’s James.”

“Sir,” James replied as he heard Lyn say,

“Oh. Give him my love will you.”

James waited, listening to the background sounds as Lewis obviously stood and walked out of the side room Lyn had now been given for her longer stay in the maternity ward.

“This is better be good James. I’ve only got one more visiting time left before you fetch me.”

“Ah. About that Sir.”

“Why am I not going to like this?”

“I can fetch you, of course, but could we re-check in to the hotel and leave in the morning. I’m going to be driving up from West Sussex now, adding near another one hundred miles of driving back. I’ll be shattered.”

“Why the hell...? Oh. Innocent has sorted out an assessment with the bloody South East Covert Unit. That was bloody fast. Mind, Kate said she was going to kick her highness up the backside. Guess this means we’ll be going undercover from tomorrow.”

“Sir, there’s no guarantee that I will be deemed up to snuff.”

“Seriously lad, the way you talk sometimes. Course you’ll do fine.”

“May. Crevecoeur Hall. My reaction to finding the body in the Zelinksy case. My, um, hiding of certain facts during the Phoenix Killings and Will’s suicide. Plus, I’m taking Seroxat.”

“Oh James lad. The drugs help you be strong, eh? And as for the rest, a lot of what went on in the Black case and most of the stuff relating to you, Will and Zoe, are known only to the two of us. They’ll know you were a victim of Mortmaigne and they’ll know about what happened to you that Friday night. As for your anti-depressants, only I know and you can chose to keep it that way. You hide who you really are all the bloody time love. You’re a natural for undercover work, seriously. Don’t you fret.”

“Um. Thank you. I think. And you’re sure this is the only way. What are we going to be any way?”

“I’m going to be an ex-dealer who’s left Newcastle in a hurry for something – I’ll hint at violence, murder, pissing off gangs, something that makes me hard and involved in drug supply. You are my boyfriend, local, which is why we’ve come back down. A bright boy who blew it all on drugs.”

“An addict?”

“Yup. With an older sugar daddy.”

“Oh. Fine. Am I posh?”

“Leave that up to you. Have you still got your accent deep down if you tried? Your real, family pre-posh boy’s school one?”

“Yeah.” James laughed. “If you wan’ it. Course I ’ave! I can soun’ as local as you want!”

“You don’t sound like you,” Lewis mused. “But you do sound a lot like my Val and her family and all my kids’ mates, so I will take that as a definite yes you can. In which case, no, you’re not posh. Local addict is just what we need for others to trust us.”

“If I pass fit.”

“You’ll do fine. You’re a natural. Did you speak like that when you went off to your posh school?”

“Well, not when I arrived.”

“And you became head boy, didn’t you, fitted right it, despite your family background.”

“I suppose so. What is your point?”

“That you’re a natural at undercover, pet. Look, can I get back to our Lyn and Emma. He sends love by the way.”

“Give her mine. How are they doing anyway?”

“Both my girls are putting on weight. Emma’s feeding every two hours, but they’re feeding our Lyn up, she has a dietician bringing her good foods, not from their regular kitchen.”

“Good. That’s good. So, about tonight?”

“Go home James. Get your head down, and then pack for undercover. Sorry love, but don’t bring your guitar. Might get nicked. And don’t get too upset if I’m a right git to you, alright? My undercover persona will be a bit of a hard bastard, okay?”

“Um. Okay. But what about you?”

“I’ll get the train this afternoon. Go home and wait. I’ll either pick you up or text you a location to meet up.”

“I might not pass...”

“You will. Good luck James.”

*

Once he was on the M25 Hathaway made two more calls. The first was to DC Mercer.

“Sophie. There’s a specialist expert witness that’s been called in regarding the chemical being used to kill the addicts. Tomorrow she’s going to be interviewing some of those the Inspector and I have already interviewed. I need you or Ngoti to be with her.”

“Okay. Why though?”

“She’ll introduce you as a police liaison, she’s not giving away she’s part of the same investigation. But I want you to basically, well, watch her back. If she gets too close she’s going to need back-up.”

“Okay. I’ll tell Mo.”

“She might need some ferrying about too, as she’s also going to check out some of the local science parks for possible leads.”

“Okey-dokey. I hear you’re going undercover sarge?”

“I hear that too.”

“Sounds dead exciting.”

“I wish. I’m going to be a dead end addict on benefits.”

“You! A chav!”

“When you’ve finished laughing constable...”

“Sorry sarge. What’s this professor called? And how do I get in touch with her?”

“Osgood. And I’ve already given her your number.”

“Right you are then. Good luck undercover.”

“Thanks.”

*

Hathaway then tried to call Innocent, but was told she was in meetings all day. Rather than leave a message he left one for Lewis, stopping at Pease Pottage for a cigarette and coffee pit stop, texting his boss to ask Innocent if Osgood could have use of a CID pool car to get her to the various science and business parks she needed to check out.

*

Hathaway was approaching Horsham when he received a call from an unidentified number. He answered it with trepidation,

“Hathaway. Oxford CID. Hello?”

“Ah. Hello Detective Sergeant. It’s Kate Stewart here. I understand you have an interview for a psyche evaluation in about twenty minutes at the joint southeast region’s covert operations. You’re going undercover with Lewis from tomorrow. Trace this cut stuff back up the supply chain from the bottom. Yes?”

“I believe so Ma’am. And yes, Ma’am, I have the interview in fifteen minutes. I’m a bit lost.”

“Take the next left.”

“What?”

“I have you on CCTV on my laptop now. Yes. Next left. Then third right.”

“Um. Thanks. I think.”

“You are understandably nervous. I know what you recently went through. But you are obviously a strong young man and being a victim of an appallingly vicious crime alone should not stand in your way. As for anything else, I want you to tell the truth.”

“What?”

“Just tell the truth James. Trust yourself. Tell them about yourself.”

“I don’t understand Ma’am?”

“Stop hiding yourself away. Tell the truth about the hidden James Hathaway. Not the public school boy. Not the clever Cambridge undergrad or the seminarian nor the police officer. Show yourself. It’s very simple.”

“Um...”

“I need Lewis on this and he obviously needs you. Don’t fuck this up. Tell the truth for once. Alright? Trust yourself and your instincts.”

“If you think...?”

“I do. And load this number into your phone. If you need to get in touch instead of Lewis you’re now my Thames Valley Beta Wolf Six, okay?”

“What? That is... what?”

“If you stick, Detective Sergeant, you might get your own call sign. Lewis is not going to be in the force for much longer, is he?”

“But... but... beta?”

“Well, think yourself lucky, I first thought about wolf cub six or even little wolf six, but you’re hardly little and not really a cub. I then toyed – not particularly seriously, you’ll be pleased to know – with both bitch and omega.”

“Oh? Well, then thanks... I think.”

“Nasty words and attitudes aside, when I say tell the truth, that’s one detail you should keep between yourself and Lewis. As are certain details of previous cases, no doubt.”

“But you said to tell the truth?” was all James could think to say. He was still reeling with shock over her insensitive playing with words. He wasn’t sure even which to be more insulted over, the slur on his sexuality or the implication he was immature. How on Earth did this Kate Stewart know? Did Lewis tell her? Or had they kissed near a CCTV camera at some point? It was scary how she was tracking his drive. How long had she been watching him?

“In a more general sense, yes. The truth of James Hathaway and who he is and who he has pretended to be. Keep specifics out of it. Be truthful and they will see you are born to be undercover. Do you follow me? The hidden truth will get you through the assessment, despite the Roschenkovs and Mortmaigne.”

James shuddered as she mentioned them, but answered as neutrally as he could, “Yes Ma’am.” Perhaps she was preparing him for what lay ahead?

“I don’t like all this Ma’am business. Kate will do. Mostly. Oh, I know you will find that hard. You’re here. There is a parking space three over to the left once you’re in the car park. Good luck.” She hung up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some random reason for parts of the doc of this chapter the spell check vanished - apologies for typos and slightly dyslexic mistakes :(


	12. Manchester, Horsham, Oxford: Gown then Town

“I have to go Lyn love,” Robbie said gently.

“I know Dad,” Lyn replied, but she clung to her Dad’s hand more tightly. Visiting time was nearly over. They had both hoped her Dad would be back for the evening visit, but as it was, James would no longer be able to drive back up to Manchester so her Dad was going straight to the station. The few possessions he and James had bought were in a cheap zip up holdall sat beside him on the floor. Emma was asleep in her plastic hospital cot the other side of her. She turned to look at her daughter, reaching out to stroke her cheek. “We’ll both miss you.”

“I’ll miss you pet, more than you can imagine.”

“No, I think I do understand Dad. I can’t bear the thought of Emma out of my sight.”

Robbie gripped his daughter’s hand firmly with both of his. “It’s important.”

Lyn smiled. “Dad. It’s always important. You have to catch a murderer.”

“Yeah. I know. But Lyn love, I’m not just going back to lead a regular investigation. You’re not going to be able to phone me at all.”

“What?” Lyn felt cold.

“I’m going undercover. If it’s really important you ring Jean Innocent, she’ll get a message to me through my contact. I won’t have my phones. I’ll be given a new one.”

“Undercover? Where? For how long?”

Robbie sighed; feeling like his heart might break. “How long is a piece of string?”

“But... but...”

“Someone is killing addicts, bumping them off like flies because they think the world doesn’t care. Well, we do. I do!”

“I do Dad! Won’t it be like before? When you went undercover for Morse? You still came home at night?”

“I was posing as a college Porter, no one knew me at the college, but as far as our neighbours thought, nothing was wrong. It wasn’t proper undercover. I have to become someone else, live that life...”

“Of an addict? Dad! That’s dangerous!”

“I was thinking maybe more a small time dealer and crook. I have to get up the supply chain. But love, police work is always dangerous. Everything can change in a split second. Your Mam and I always lived with that. If one of us was to go, we always thought...” Robbie tailed off, thinking of Val, how she would have loved to see Emma, how she would never hold her granddaughter. Lyn watched her Dad, knowing what he was thinking and feeling, and feeling it too. But one of them had to be brave, so she squeezed his hands tightly and said gently,

“Dad! It’s okay. You have James now. Is he going in with you? He must, you told me to ring your boss. Oh Dad! I’ll worry,” she confessed, her resolution going out of the window as she realised she could not ring her Dad or even James.

“I’ll be fine. The people we’re infiltrating are not hardened criminals. They just won’t open up to coppers, even nice ones like me and James.” Robbie grinned weakly. Lyn smiled back,

“Mum told me you went undercover, when she was pregnant with me, in Newcastle. When you were a DC in Vice. She didn’t see you for over six weeks. If she could live with that, I can live with this.”

Robbie’s eyes burned with unshed tears. “That’s my girl,” he said, leaning forward to give her a hug and a kiss. They held each other tightly for a few moments. “I have to go pet. I’ll miss my train.” He stood and grabbed his back, walking around the bed to drop a gentle kiss on the sleeping baby. “Bye little princess. Be good for your Mam for your old Grandpa. Grow big for me.”

“Oh Dad, she’s gaining every day.”

“I know,” he smiled thinly. “You be good too. That Vi has got all your friends organised so you won’t want for a thing.”

“Give James my love, won’t you.”

“’Course I will. Bye pet.”

Lyn waved and stared out of the door of her side ward for a long while after she could no longer see her Dad walking down the corridor.

*

Hathaway had been in his meeting for almost half an hour before he found he was possibly being rejected as suitable. At first it had gone well, the young Asian woman police psychologist and the older white male superintendent had met him as soon as he had arrived. He was shown into a comfortable office with easy chairs and offered tea or coffee, with a plate of biscuits. They had first chatted about his time at Sulhamstead, his two years in uniform, mostly in Maidenhead and Marlow, before he had transferred to Oxford with the express intent of fast-tracking him into CID. Much was made of his valuable contribution in these more difficult, esoteric, murders the Oxford University seemed to experience and his invaluable experience as a Cambridge graduate. His fine tuned observational skills, almost forensic in his approach to all forms of policing, were praised. They believed he had probably found his niche, and of course, he had proved an invaluable bagman to Inspector Robert Lewis, and they could quite see how he would want such a fine partner with him whilst undercover, however...

James had reeled with shock as he was told that certain misdemeanours and the withholding of evidence during the Phoenix Killer and the Will McEwan suicide investigations had almost cost him his career. Lewis had told him most had been hidden and Innocent had just almost joked in his dressing down that he might have been dead, so he might as well take that to be a lesson to him to trust his comrades a bit more.

Having thought he had talked his way out of that, Crevecoeur Hall and the Black/Graham cases were thrown in the mix.

“I never hid the fact I lived there as a child.”

“If you had not hidden all your childhood experience there from your Inspector he could have picked up on a possible motive – indeed the motive as it happened – a lot quicker,” the superintendent pointed out. 

“I didn’t want to remember! I couldn’t!” James’ voice had suddenly risen with stress. “You can’t blame me for something I suffered as a child!”

“Did you first consciously remember during the investigation or had you always known?” Doctor Parveen Prakresh, the psychologist, asked gently.

“A bit of both, I think. I always knew deep down, but I buried the memories. I couldn’t tell my boss, or anyone, because, as it happens, I thought that I might prejudice any chance we might have had of getting Briony Graham to open up to us and prosecute the bastard once and for all. If I’d have gone in, telling colleagues and his recent victim, I’d have given his defence all the weaponry and armour they would have needed to get the whole damned case thrown out and him acquitted!”

“Good answer,” Superintendent Andy Baker said, leaning back in his chair. “And a valid point. Do you want any more tea Hathaway?”

“No. No thank you. Look, I know you’re thinking I’m probably a bit delicate. Neither of you have mentioned my being raped three months ago and I’m surprised at that. I expected that to be the reason you might dismiss me as unsuitable. I’ve had to think about this a lot since my guv told me I might be going undercover.”

“And what are your thoughts James?” Prakresh said gently.

“That I’ve always been undercover! Go ask any of my school contemporaries. Tell them I went home to a two up, two down, worker’s cottage on the edge of Faringdon, that my Mum was a school cook and my Dad an itinerant labourer. Ask then if they realised I was a scholarship brat?”

“What would the answer be?” Baker asked

“No, not a bloody clue. And that carries on. At the station I get ribbed for being posh, which I always take good-naturedly. No one has a clue as to my real background. Nor did they up at Cambridge.”

“What about Hendon? You couldn’t fit in there, could you? Hence their request for Thames Valley to take you.”

“That was a mistake, yes. It was to do more with the anti-graduate ethos of the place, I think. If I’d come from Reading or Keele, maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad.”

“So, hiding your education is something you would struggle with?”

“Plenty a high flyer of Oxbridge falls into the arms of drug addiction and poverty. Which is what I would be should I be going undercover with my inspector. I don’t have to pretend not to be a Cambridge theologian to be a junkie on benefits, do I?”

“True,” conceded Baker.

“Inspector Lewis intends to pass you off as his boyfriend. How do you feel about pretending to be gay?”

James looked from one to the other and sighed deeply. “I won’t have to. It’ll be quite a relief really, not to have to pretend to be straight. I’ve been doing that for as long as I can remember.”

“Why on Earth...?” Prakresh began, while Baker spoke over her,

“We are very tolerant these days Hathaway...”

“I’m Catholic. It’s a sin. And before you ask, my Inspector does know both I’m gay and I’m celibate. He made the decision on what role to assign me with full knowledge so we can assume it doesn’t bother him.”

“You have pre-empted several of my questions, Hathaway. All to the good, I assure you,” Baker said, before nodding to Prakresh.

“Since you raised it yourself James, can we talk about how you are coping with the post-rape trauma a little bit? I know it will be difficult, but if we give the say so, you might be undercover for months, which might make accessing any on going treatments and support you might be getting with you GP or any counselling difficult.”

*

The following morning saw Lewis bright and early at the station for a briefing meeting with Innocent prior to his commencing undercover. They were still waiting on SEROCU’s report on Hathaway. 

Hathaway had phoned him from Horsham as soon as his meeting was over, but had been unsure what to make of it. He was tired and upset, that much Lewis could tell on the phone. But James, being James, had said he was fine. Lewis told him to get something to eat, drink plenty of coffee, and then drive back to Oxford, go home and go to sleep. This morning, if the boy was following orders, he would be sleeping in and packing in preparation for going undercover with him. He would pick him up once everything was finalised.

At seven that morning his new, secure, UNIT laptop had arrived, biked over from the Tower of London by a young army officer, and while he waited to be summomend to Innocent’s office Lewis was taking all James’ hard work off his laptop and onto the new secure one, that wherever he was, with 3G as well as wifi, would connect him to both HOLMES 2 and DOCTOR while scrambling all data streams. He just had to keep it hidden from all prying or theiving eyes. In the meantime, he had to make sure Innocent wouldn’t see him downloading and transferring data with such ease. He had a dinosaur reputation to keep.

*

Alec Hooper was already in Innocent’s office when Lewis arrived.

“Ah Lewis. Take a seat.”

“Ma’am.”

“Hooper here will be your contact. Hathaway left your car here last night, and then his own. I also requested his warrant card in the hope of south east regional’s okay.”

“Do we have it Ma’am?”

“We do, on provisions.”

“What?”

“They’re concerned about post rape trauma. You’re to monitor him and he is to be honest with you about how he’s feeling.” Innocent snorted, then coughed, and went on, “I’m not sure if I can trust you to be honest with each other about feelings, you’re both such reticent men, but on the other hand, I’m not sure I want to understand how well you read each other without a word spoken.”

Hooper grinned at this, then coughed and covered his hand with his mouth.

Lewis frowned. “And what the hell do we do if he’s not coping?”

“You’re a couple. You break up. He runs home to mummy.”

This time Hooper had more trouble to hide his laugh behind a cough and Innocent gave him a stern stare.

“Sorry Ma’am.”

“So, you and James are a couple, James is an addict, you’re a dealer. You’ve just arrived from Newcastle, where you’re fleeing unspecified trouble. You’ve come here as that’s where James originates from. You’ll check in with Hooper once a week, he’ll text you on your new phone place and time.”

“It’ll be a pub, somewhere of the Cowley Road. First meeting in one week. Sir.”

“We’ve spoken to the landlord of a mixed occupancy let off the Cowley Road. One of the first victims was in the attic room. That’s the room you’ll have. Five others in the house, including one who is a small time cannabis dealer. The body was a user dealer in heroin. The landlord obviously knows you are undercover, but no one else will. You can move in, in two nights, which means two nights in B&B’s or the back of the van. You have a ten year old transit van. It’s in the car park. Hooper?”

Hooper stood and handed Lewis two sets of keys and a phone.

“If I can have your phones now, and your warrant card. I understand you planned to pick up Hathaway from his home?”

“Well, yeah...”

“Not a good plan, Robbie, what were you thinking? He lives in the target area. Hooper will pick him up and drive him up to Cherwell Valley services. You can pick him up there.”

“Fine Ma’am.”

Innocent produced a tray from under her desk. In it sat Hathaway’s car keys, his Blackberry and his Nokia, and of course, his warrant card. Lewis stood and emptied his pockets, throwing in his phones and keys, including a master set for the station, and then his warrant card.

“Any questions?”

“You got my e-mail about Professor Osgood?”

“Yes. In light of U... other agency involvement I have finally been able to get funding for more manpower on this investigation. Hence Hooper as your liaison. I’ve tasked Mercer with driving and escorting Osgood, providing her with whatever resources and back-up she might require. And I’ve got Ngoti doing what he does best – CCTV. Really, the man’s capacity to stare for long hours watching variously sourced CCTV coverage and never miss the slightest piece of evidence amazes me. How he doesn’t get bored!”

“So, he’s doing what I wanted weeks ago – trying to trace back the hours and days of every single victim and seeing if we catch them scoring.”

“Or have them meeting a person or persons in common. Yes. So, we have you and Hathaway tracing the source of this deadly drug from the bottom up and Osgood trying to find it’s origin. In the meantime there were three more deaths while you were in Manchester.”

“I’ll look at them before I go.”

“No Lewis. They’re all the same. All in East Oxford. Let Hobson and Osgood deal with that side of things. Now we’ve finished this briefing you will pick up the van, go home, pack, and drive up to Cherwell and pick up Hathaway. Any more questions?”

“No Ma’am.”

“Hooper?”

“Do I pick up Hathaway now?”

“Yes. I’ll ring him at home and let him know. Good luck gentlemen.”

“Ma’am,” both men said together, as they both stood to leave.

* 

Meanwhile Osgood and Mercer had just arrived at the Department of Biochemistry on South Parks Road. Sophie was glad of the heads up the sarge had given her regarding prompting the batty scientist on using her inhaler. She seemed to be struggling to breathe a lot. She’d also been grateful he’d warned her about the mad scarf. Firstly it meant she was prepared and hadn’t laughed, and secondly, it meant it was easy to find her in the hotel lobby that morning.

Sophie thought this Professor Keller was a bit creepy and oily, and probably had a lot to hide. The guv had warned her on more than one occasion about jumping to conclusions. Suspicions, gut-feelings and imagination all played their part, he had told her, but observation and evidence were key. He had even quoted Sherlock Holmes to her: ‘It is a capital offence to theorise in the absence of facts’. Or something like that.

But this guy was smooth. Black silk shirt and tie with a silver tiepin. His black jacket was hung neatly on a hanger on the back of his office door. His desk contained none of the usual paraphernalia – no family snaps in frames, no silly ornament or executive toy, no photos of self and mates on some jolly. Nothing.

The man himself had swept back black hair, beginning to silver, with a widow’s peak, and a neatly trimmed goatee beard. He had sharp, dark, eyes that seemed to watch one even if he didn’t seem to be looking at you. That was what she felt about him being creepy. But it wasn’t like some of those old dons and fellows, there was no feeling of sexuality here, he wasn’t undressing her in his imagination of anything like that. No, he was stripping back her mind and memory. Or at least, she imagined he was, as the guv would tell her. That was, if she could brief the guv. She couldn’t. He’d disappeared into the mass of the underclass of druggies and homeless and beggars of Oxford’s poor and dispossessed.

Osgood, too, was nervous. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out by the number of puffs she took on her inhaler and the way she stuttered. She also tried studiously not to look into Keller’s eyes, nor to let him look at hers.

Firstly, Keller gave Osgood all the answers he had already given to her guv. Sophie had checked the file and the computer that morning before she had picked up Osgood, thinking she must be getting like Hathaway and Ngoti. She’d been in at just gone seven. Inspector Lewis had been the only one there when she arrived. He’d been in one of his shabby suits, but she supposed he would, for his final briefing, before he handed in his warrant card and disappeared. Hooper was supposed to keep tabs on him. She really needed to focus.

Because, as she was frequently told by the boss and the sarge, she needed to focus, she missed the switch from firstly Keller talking about Kettering’s research to his explaining about his own areas of research and degrees, to being almost interrogated as to where he came from, who his family was, could he verify anything.

He claimed to be Irish, with no siblings because his mother died soon after he was born. His father died a drunk and the church in Dublin had raised him. Sadly the orphanage had burnt down when he was an adult, so no thus there was no record. He was at a loss to understand why a military scientist – the phrases dripped with contempt and sarcasm from his lips as he spoke them – would want to check up on his background.

“Routine,” wheezed Osgood, looking up from her copious notes.

“I seriously doubt that my dear. And I assure you, if you wish to check up on my academic record here, and Harvard, you will find all in order.

“I don’t doubt that for one second Professor... Keller.”

“Now, tell me honestly my dear, as you are accompanied by this charming young CID officer from Oxford Police, are you investigating the same death as Inspector Lewis?”

“Not in the least Professor. What death would that be?” Osgood looked to Sophie. Sophie suspected she was being asked to play along.

“Oh. A post grad student died of a heroin overdose. It was cut with something the pathologist couldn’t identify. My inspector came here, didn’t he, to see if the victim could have got hold of your student’s stuff, didn’t he? But that was filed as death by misadventure ages ago.”

“And where is you inspector now?” Keller asked.

“On leave. If it’s any business of yours. Manchester. His daughter’s just had his first grandkid. He’s made up. His wife died you know, so they’re probably a bit sad and happy at the same time. It’s so sweet,” Sophie gushed, trying to be her normally, bubbly self, the chatterbox that annoyed her colleagues and guv.

Keller gave her a terrifying look of sneering contempt that made Sophie feel cold inside, as if he could see right through her, before he said smoothly, “Ah. How... lovely for him. Is there anything else Professor Osgood. I can arranged for all paper and computer logs of the heroin and other drugs coming through Sebastian’s labs, if that would help. And a brief outline of his thesis.”

“Thank you. That would. As I have explained, this is a routine inquiry. Research by a university student using illegal drugs needs proper vetting.”

“Of course. Now, is there anything else?”

“Yes. Who is Thascales? What is his relationship to you? How close is his research connected to Sebastian Kettering’s work, and is it without the boy’s knowledge?”

*

“Ready sarge?” Hooper asked, bouncing on his heels on the doorstep of the old Georgian house’s front door.

“Very nearly,” Hathaway replied, leading the way into his flat.

“Bit dolled up for undercover, aren’t we?” Hooper asked cheekily. “What’s with the hair?”

“I often gel it up when I’m in jeans these days.”

“Designer skinny jeans, don’t you think that’s a bit unlikely for a drug addict on benefits, eh?”

“Well, I spoke to Innocent his morning and...”

“You’re never going to pose as a rent boy are you sarge? Would have thought that a bit impossible for you, nearly a priest an’ all.”

“You’d be surprised!” Hathaway suddenly snarled, in broad Oxfordshire, slurring his words.

“Fair enough. Not what the boss was briefed though. Explains the face slap too. Though, that is you.”

“Hooper, shut up will you. I’m leaving my flat as me, okay? And I need you to stop off at a barbers for me on route. Or maybe Bicester, so not here at all.”

“Barbers it is then. This your gear?” Hooper picked up a large sports bag from the sofa.

“Mostly, yeah.” Hathaway picked up a couple of supermarket bags for life on the breakfast bar. “Come on then.”

*

“Is he a suspect?” Sophie asked Osgood once they were back in the pool car Innocent had given them for the duration of Osgood’s investigation.

“Not in the least. But I do need to do thorough background checks of all scientists and students involved in any research into opium or addiction. In case they have a history.”

“Of what? Experimenting on people?”

“Operating without a licence. Releasing drugs too early, without the proper checks. Selling drugs for one thing to make a profit for another. All sorts.” Osgood didn’t add, of course, they might not have a history because they were not human at all. She hoped Mercer would buy her explanation.

*

Hooper pulled up at the very back of the service station car park, where few cars were parked. The only vehicle near to where Hooper pulled up was a blue Ford transit van was parked up by a tree with a man seated inside. The other three cars in the back row of spaces were nowhere near and empty. Two rows of empty car parking spaces before even the next lonely car gave them even more privacy. Hathaway was surprised to see it was Lewis in the van. He knew he shouldn’t be.

“Here we are then sarge. Next time we meet I’ll be your uncle by the way. So I suppose I’d better get used to calling you James, s’okay?”

“Fine. Uncle Alec.”

Hooper got out first, going to the boot of his car to retrieve Hathaway’s bags. As he did so Lewis got out of the van.

“What kept you?”

“His nibs wanted his hair done.”

“What? Oh, never mind.” Lewis walked round the car and opened the passenger door. “Alright then? All fit?”

James looked up, stunned. He had never seen his boss look like he did. He was unshaven and he’d pushed his thinning hair up into a bit of a quiff. If that wasn’t a shock on its own, what Lewis was wearing was. Dressed in a ratty, battered Newcastle football shirt over shiny tracksuit bottoms in black with a white piping down the leg with falling apart of-white cheap trainers to complete the image. He was also wearing cheap nine carat gold, a chain and two rings on one hand, a fake gold sovereign on his middle finger and a chunky one with a stone on his little finger, and a signet on his left ring finger.

“You look...” naff, thought Hathaway, “not like yourself.”

“Point sergeant. I’m not myself. What the hell have you got on? And what the hell have you done with your hair? Where’s your lovely hair? It’s shorter than it was when I met you.”

“Innocent pointed out I live in the target area. I was trying to make myself less... um, myself?”

“Well, it’s not really worked, has it? What you got that muck on your face for? And James, those jeans are bloody expensive ones. And that top, I was with you when you got it from Fat Face. Hardly in the price range of someone with nothing.”

“If you’d give me a minute...” James climbed out of the car.

Although Lewis secretly worried that James wore the foundation because he was conscious about his scar, and the rest to either boost his confidence or even to attract him, he couldn’t help be bothered that James had gone for the made-up look for his undercover character. It was so bloody southern, meterosexual, middle class, and ponsy to be a male in make-up. There was only one type of lower class drug addict male to wear make-up, Lewis suspected.

“Right. Get that muck of your face?”

James, who had planned to, felt contrary and confused by the whole set up, Lewis’ appearance and his change of stance and attitude, answered, “Well the hell should I? It’s a free country. What does it matter?”

“What the hell does it matter? This isn’t some bloody cheese and wine art show. It’s reality. You’ll get queer bashed. Anyhow, do you really think someone on sick benefits really goes around dolled up? I might want to give the impression I’m a thug and a dealer, but I’m no pimp. People’ll think I’m your pimp, you dressed like that.”

“So, what are saying Sir? You don’t get gay men on benefits? In social housing? Homeless? Just in nice, middle class careers, is that it?”

“No. But I’m saying queer bashing might be more rife on a council estate. And I’m saying whatever your sexuality, you can’t afford designer jeans, posh, hippy tops, and bloody, fucking Clarins!”

“Sorry, Sir, but this is me and... and actually, wearing make-up and being gay are two entirely separate things. There are plenty of straight men who are into male grooming.”

“Not in the places we’re going. Fancy arguing the case with a bunch of drunken thugs outside a rougher pub then? You’re not there in uniform, you’ve no warrant card, and no shout for back up. Just you and me trying to blend. You’ll stand out in your face paint.” The reality of his plan was beginning to bite, Lewis was asking himself what the hell he had thought of, thinking they could do this. If he had been honest with himself he’d have said he was terrified. Instead, he was hiding his terror behind a wall of aggression.

“Well, let them try!” Hathaway said, fight in his eyes. He was wound up tight, terrified of the whole undercover business and it was coming out as aggression. He was surprised Lewis couldn’t tell.

“Get it off sergeant or else I’ll drag you to the gents and scrub it off myself.” Lewis was also worried for James, not knowing at all whether he would handle this situation, wondering if he had been selfish, arguing so strongly for James to be with him, for reasons he suspected were not entirely operational. James would have been so much better handling all the data he acquired at one end of this investigation and Osgood at the other and finding the patterns and matches.

Hathaway narrowed his eyes. “That would be harassment and assault of a junior officer. DC Hooper here will...”

“Not if I’m telling you as your boyfriend. Which I am.”

“Then that’s domestic violence, and still assault. Hooper...”

“Don’t you bring me into this. Fascinating as it is to watch you get into your undercover personas. Look Sir, the sarge had to leave his flat as himself. Let him in the back of the van and he’ll sort it all. Won’t you sarge?”

“Um. Yes. I just got angry.” Hathaway realised he had to back down. If they went on squaring up to each other like this Hooper would have to separate them. Fighting wasn’t a good start to an undercover operation and it certainly wasn’t good for their relationship. “I didn’t know you felt so strongly about my little improvements. Must be stress Sir. I’ve not done this before.”

Lewis sighed deeply, unclenching his fists and forcing his shoulders to relax. “If I had a problem with the makeup at work I’d have said. But let’s drop the sirs and sergeants now, okay.” Lewis unlocked the van backdoors. Hooper opened them and threw in Hathaway’s bags and Hathaway climbed in behind them and pulled the doors shut.

“Truly Sir,” Hooper began.

“Robbie now.”

“Well, Robbie, it’s true, she who must be obeyed pointed out that your new home for the duration is a few streets and half a mile away from James’ flat. He came out as himself, had to. We stopped off in Bicester to get his curls shaved off into that skinhead. That’s why we were a bit late. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m a bit ragged with nerves too, I suppose.”

“Bound too. I’ll get off then.”

“Wait.”

“Eh?”

Lewis looked to Hooper a bit bashful. “I didn’t want to ask in front of Innocent, but could you do me a favour. Even Hobson’s not to know where I’ve gone, and she’s the only person I could ask. Not if I don’t want the neighbours to know I’ve left the flat.”

“What?”

“Can you feed my cat? He’s called Monty. There’s tins and dried stuff in the cupboard next to the one under the sink. Half a tin at night and a bowl full of the dried treats in the morning. Give him a stroke or too if he wants it.”

“’Course I will Sir.” Hooper smiled. Just then James came out of the van wearing much baggier, cheaper, scruffier, jeans, a plain white tee shirt and a checked skirt over the top, undone. Faded red cheap copy Converses from some supermarket chain or the other completed the look. He had removed all trace of foundation, brown mascara and lip-gloss. He handed Hooper one of the plastic bags he’d brought with him,

“These are my clothes and makeup wipes. Could you just put them in my desk at work until I...”

“Course I will sarge. Right. That’s me. I’ll see you guys in a week. If I’m James’ uncle how do I feel about you then?”

“I’m twice his age, male, and a crook. How would you feel if he were your nephew?”

“Want to pound your head in. Tolerate you for his sake. I guess.”

“There you go then. Text me time and location on the day.”

“Good luck. Inspector. Sergeant.” Hooper got back in his car and drove away. Robbie and James watched him go for some while, standing side by side, looking and feeling for all the world like two small boys abandoned by their parents in some strange place with unknown, scary relatives. This was it. No back-up. They were no longer part of the Force, cut adrift from the mighty Thames Valley and all its strength and protection. Even James, who was not the most sociable of men, felt its loss more keenly.

Finally both men sighed deeply, pulled themselves together and then looked at each other.

“Right you are then my pet, best get going then,” Lewis sounded suddenly so much more Geordie.

James ran his hand over his newly shorn head. “Um. Yeah. Okay love.” He had dropped all rounded vowels and instead sounded so local too. Robbie got a secret kick out of being called love. “Where to?”

“Oxford, I guess. Find somewhere to spend the night, maybe start a pub-crawl at those I know have dealers that operate or at least used to operate from. My Intel is a bit sketchy thanks to lack of cooperation from certain people.”

“Right. Okay. But could we...?”

“What?”

James looked about him dramatically and then lowered his voice, “Go and have a cup of tea here first. Get used to these undercover personas somewhere neutral. Please?” he said in an almost whisper.

Robbie smiled. “Fine. Okay. Right you are then pet.”


	13. Day 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1 of undercover...

They spent the best part of an hour in the service station, making two cups of tea each and one portion of chips between them last. They sat by the window, James staring out of the window in thought and Robbie reading the Daily Mirror. James kept checking the impulse to run his hands over his stubbly hair. He’d not had it so short since he’d been in the Seminary. But he doubted this James ever made it that far.

“I’m going for a fag.”

“Again?”

“Yeah. Problem?”

“No. Let’s walk back to the van then.”

“Where are we going then?”

“Oxford.”

“Why?”

“You said you have family.”

“It’s not like they’re going to be pleased to see me Robbie.”

“Whatever. It’s somewhere.”

*

Once in the van travelling back down south on the M40 Hathaway asked,

“Ho do we play this Sir? Robbie?”

“Firstly, we stay in character as much as possible, even alone. When we need to talk shop we make sure we’re not overheard. In here, mostly. And our room, as long as people aren’t around.”

“I was meaning... no, forget it.”

“What love?”

“Us. We’re undercover as in a relationship. Which is sanctioned. But we are. Which isn’t. At least, none of our superiors or colleagues know about it,” as he was replaying what he’d just said in his head, wondering if it made sense, Lewis answered him. He’d obviously made more sense than he’d thought.

“Think Hooper does.”

“Really?”

“Wouldn’t worry pet. He seems happy for us. What is your point?”

Maybe he hadn’t made that much sense? He decided to be blunt and honest. They wouldn’t have time for much else in their brief moments not in their undercover personas to be anything else. “Our relationship is a mess. I’m so fucked up. I love you but I struggle, and what... what do we...?”

“Relax. We don’t have to have sex. In fact, we don’t. Even if you feel ready love, we are going to wait. When we make love it will be as ourselves. Not as a petty crook and his screw up addict boyfriend. Alright? Is that what you needed to know?”

“Um. Yeah.” James stared out of the window for a while.

Robbie reached out and squeezed his thigh. “You’ll do fine.”

“I spent so much time and effort losing this accent,” James said gloomily. “I hope it doesn’t stick.”

Robbie decided pointing out how it crept back when James was stressed or drunk at times was not the best answer. “I doubt that. Your voice has been yours since you were eleven or twelve, hasn’t it? I didn’t even realise how twenty five years or so in Oxford has softened and rounded out my accent until I started to thicken it and felt like I’m putting on some sort of comedy Geordie accent.”

“It sounds natural to me.”

“Good. And also, to answer your question, I’m a bit of a bastard to you. Your undercover you. Don’t let it get to you James if I’m a sexist pig to you, if I patronise you and use names I, as me, wouldn’t say in a million years.” He squeezed James’ leg again.

“Okay. But... what now?"

“Now? Like I said, we get to some pubs. Ask about discreetly to try to score, and more generally, ask about your fictional ‘uncle’ and if anyone knows of a cheap digs going. We’ll start at the Blackbird and work our way down through Cowley Centre and Cowley Road. Okay?”

James snorted. “Fine. We might get a bit drunk though.”

“Slosh it on the floor a bit, discreetly like.”

“Your wish is my command.”

“Oi. Stop that, you sound too much like my awkward sod, and we’re not us. Not for God knows how long!” Robbie snapped more harshly than he had intended. James picked up on his tension and stress,

“You’re worried about Lyn, aren’t you?”

“Can’t be helped, now, can it? People are dying.”

*

They got into Oxford just before the rush hour and first picked up a kebab each from the Cowley Road and ate them in the van parked up by the Blackbird in the centre of Blackbird Leys. James ran out of cigarettes and Robbie told him to switch to roll ups as they were short of cash.

“Seriously?”

“Of course, seriously. Think about it.”

Roll ups made James think of his Dad, and more, his uncle, his real one that was, and that led to his thinking of smoking other stuff than just tobacco, which was the last time he’d rolled up anything for himself to smoke. Which, of course, reminded him of the seriousness of this investigation and the absolute imperative to not appear to be himself but this other, harder, poorer, but probably more vulnerable, James. He stomped off to the newsagents without another word.

“Get us a Mars bar pet,” Robbie called after him.

Some teenage boys were hanging around the shops on bikes and skateboards, smoking and trying and failing to look cool and hard with their bums hanging out of their jeans not even covering their behinds. They looked up and sniggered at Robbie’s unfamiliar, northern, accent. They all stared at James as he walked past to get into the shop, trying and failing to look menacing. Of course, they probably would have intimidated many a woman or pensioner. If James had been himself, with his warrant card, as ever, in his pocket, would have politely asked them to move on. It hit him how, although he struggled, although he’d barely been in uniform for two years following his probation and training, how ingrained the policeman part of him was and how alone they were. They were going to have to turn a blind eye to all kinds of low level crime and anti social behaviour, not just drug possession and intent to supply.

“Where’s your mate from then pet?” one jeered, failing to produce a Newcastle accent miserably. James ignored them. Apart from picking a fight, there was little else he could do.

*

The Blackbird was not the most picturesque of pubs, built at the same time as most of the estate centre in the mid sixties, it was a flat roofed, concrete block, with new, cheap trellises and patio furniture provided for the smokers following the legislation that banded smoking in pubs, clubs, cafes, and restaurants. It was split into the saloon and the ‘family room’. The saloon was showing the football, the ‘family room’ had on a TV channel showing some ‘reality’ TV show and there were lots of small children running about the room and in an out of it, getting under people’s feet, with groups of tired looking, and sometimes drunk, mums with buggies, some empty as the occupant raced, or even crawled, about the room, or some with sleeping toddlers or babies.

Robbie headed for the saloon and the football. James followed him.

“Mine’s a pint love,” he said, handing James a fiver. It wasn’t enough for the two of them. James had little experience of couples, but decided, with a vehicle, even if you were going to be stoned, you might want to stay sober. He got himself a soda water on tap, lots of ice, it being the cheapest soft drink there was.

“Not drinking then?”

“Got to make the money last. Besides, someone has to stay sober enough to drive. We’ve got to find somewhere to stay tonight.”

“Howay man!” Robbie yelled suddenly. “I’ve been driving since stupid o’clock this morning down from Newcastle. I deserve a bloody beer.”

James flinched. He knew Lewis was in character, he’d been warned, but it was a shock. “I could have driven. I offered,” he decided to answer.

“You were too busy crying like a fucking bitch,” Robbie snarled, causing several heads to turn.

James stood and glared at Robbie, taking his cue, “We had to leave everything. Our home. And whose fault is that? We ain’t never going to get anywhere half as decent down here. You don’t know how fucking expensive it is here!” with that he flounced out of the bar. As he left he heard someone say,

“You a fucking poof or what?”

*

James leant on the outside wall and rolled himself a fag, trying to centre himself. It was all an act he tried to remind himself. He sniffed the thick, nicotine polluted air.

“Got a light?” someone asked him. He looked up. A young girl, definitely not sixteen, let alone eighteen, was holding out a menthol-flavoured cigarette.

“Um. Sure.” He fished out his lighter.

“Can I borrow it? Ta,” she said as she snatched it out of his hand. She lit the cigarette and walked off with his lighter.

“Hey!” James followed her to a table. Around it sat a group of seven or eight teenage girls, mixed ages and colours, ranging from twelve to thirteen to maybe eighteen or nineteen, and from pale milk-white ginger to deep chocolate brown African, with white, mixed race, and paler West Indian black in-between

“No worries,” she called, and handed it to a slightly older girl, who used it to light a larger, hand rolled cigarette. Or not cigarette, James realised as the air was filled with the sweet, sickly scent of skunk. He stood there, astounded at the effrontery of these, mostly underage, girls, who were not only obviously drinking alcohol in plain sight but smoking cannabis too.

“What you staring at lanky?” asked the girl with the spliff.

“Can I have my lighter back?” he asked, dumbly.

The girl passed it back up to him, “Sure. Thanks.” 

James took and it and lit his own roll-up and continued to stand over them.

“Piss off, you’re looming,” another girl said, taking a drag from the joint.

“Want some?” asked the first girl, the one with the menthol cigarette.

“Um. No thanks. Gotta keep a clear head. Maybe later.”

“Then get your own!” snarled one girl.

“Why you need a clear head then? You’re in the wrong place,” the first girl said, laughing. The two youngest laughed too, but they had been giggling at everything the older girls had said to James anyway.

James ignored the laughing girls and demanded, “And where do I go, for later? My boyfriend and me have only just got down here. Where did you get your blow from then? Know where I might get anything harder? Got a number?

*

Lewis was busy watching football with a group of men when James came back. Despite the threat he’d heard as he left Lewis had been able to get himself accepted as one of the boys. It was a pre-season friendly, but they all seemed involved in the game, none the less.

“James! James pet! Get us a round in,” Robbie called, waving him over.

“But.. but... What about the money?" he hissed.

“Use the emergency fund.”

“But that’s for somewhere to live Robbie.”

“You looking for somewhere to live?” asked one of the men, a fat white guy of indeterminate age, dressed in a check shirt over ripped jeans, not ripped stylishly, but through age, over steel capped boots, covered in muck and dust. James had him pegged as a builder, or at least building site labourer.

“Yeah. Sort of,” Robbie said. “Had to leave my old town in a bit of a hurry, like.”

“All your fault too,” James sneered.

“Weren’t my fault princess. You’re the one that got us in this mess.”

“Me! Oh! Forget it! Just tell me what I’m getting?”

The three men all told him their beer of choice and James went back to the bar. He came back this time with a pint of mild for himself too, and sat morosely next to Robbie. He hated football, always had. He, as a rule, had never got on with team games, either to play or to watch. He played cricket at bit at school, and was quite good, although it was boring to watch. He liked the complex mathematics of the scoring too. Rugby, of course, had been compulsory, but he had never liked it. It had far too much aggression and physical contact. He preferred rowing. Although one could argue an eight was a team, it was different. That had been all eight men rowing in unison, becoming one force, powering through the water.

*

After a while, James could stand the crowds and the noise no longer and went outside again. The young girls had gone, but there were still plenty of people outside in the smoking area. One of the men that was watching the football with Robbie was having a smoke and he nodded to James. Two young West Indian women came up to him as he lit his cigarette.

“Bloody football,” one of them said.

“He your boyfriend then?” the other asked, nodding at the window in the general direction of the bar.

James giggled nervously. “Yeah. Suppose he is.”

“Yeah, he’s watching the footie with our old men. Thought my Will was going to knock his head off when he realised you were an item. Sorry about that.”

James snorted. “Like to see him try. Robbie has a bit of a temper on him. Why we had to leave Newcastle.”

“But you’re not Northern.”

“No. I’m from around here. Came back to see if we could find my uncle.”

“Police not after you?” asked the other young woman, eyes wide.

“Well, no, well yes, but they’re not the problem.”

“Drugs?”

“Why do you say that?” James narrowed his eyes.

“It’s always drugs, init? Turf wars and that. Unless it’s booze.”

“Or tarts,” the other woman added. “He your pimp too?”

“No!” James suddenly really appraised these women and wondered if he should have said yes. Both were in brightly coloured, very short, very tight, dresses that clung to every curve, both in very high heeled shoes that would have looked more at home on a drag queen on stage.

Both women laughed. “If he keeps spending your money like that he might be. You could be quite pretty if you grew your hair a bit, made something of yourself.”

“Thanks. I think. But no thanks. I ought to make him go.”

“You won’t get any one of them away ’til the match is over now. Fancy some blow?”

“What, now?”

“I’d never smoke it out in the open. Attracts attention, don’t it?”

“Leave that to the little kids, init,” added the other.

“We could get you some blow. Or Charley, if you fancy it. Cost you though.”

“Later. When we’re sorted a bit more. Robbie is going to want some gear soon. Got a number?”

*

After the match, although it was only early evening, Robbie appeared to be drunk as a skunk and out of his head.

“Love you James,” he said, flinging his arms around him and almost falling over on top of him.

“Good job I stayed straight, isn’t it? Come on, let’s get you back to our van. We’re probably sleeping there, you’ve drunk out Bed and Breakfast money, in’t you?”

“Hey mate, you look after him, yeah. If you drive out towards Garsington, there’s a layby by a farm field. You can park up there no problem, farmer’s a mate of mine, don’t mind travellers and that parking up for a night or two.”

“Thanks. Yeah. Will do that.” James staggered under the weight of Robbie, who was kissing his neck, in public, telling him how he loved him and was sorry he was a complete dick to him.

Once in the van and driving away, Robbie straightened up in his seat and said stone cold soberly, “Got an address of a supplier in Cowley Road. One of those blokes I was drinking with, I think he might be a small time dealer. Think I recognise it as a location of a body, but we can check the laptop.”

“We couldn’t bring it. You had me fooled Sir. I seriously thought you were completely pissed. And it’s his girlfriend who deals. Cannabis mostly, but she did offer to get me some heroin. I have her number.”

“Good work. And it takes more than five pints to knock me under the table, lad. And I have one from UNIT, secure laptop, size of a tablet, fingerprint and palm scan secure. It scrambles the data stream so we should be able to login to HOLMES 2, the PNC and, um... other... um sites safely. I downloaded all your handwork this morning. Your laptop was at the station.”

“Had to hand it along with everything else.”

“Of course. But this is from Kate. Did you just get the one number?”

“No, I got three, and a suggestion you were my pimp, and an offer of sex from a very drunk, very scary – very, very scary! - older woman.”

Robbie laughed. “Saw out of the window, wife of the bloke who gave me the address.”

“Then not the boyfriend of the black woman who gave me her number as a dealer then.”

“Not necessarily, no. Who knows.”

“They seemed to tolerate one another. Where next?”

“You were in uniform here a few years ago, you pick one.”

“I wasn’t.”

“What?”

“In uniform. In Oxford. Well, not for long, and then I was more Innocent’s errand boy rather than a beat officer. Your guess is probably better than mine.”

“Tell you what, let’s get some tea. Soak up that booze, eh?”

“Fine.”

*

They bought pizza and several bottles of water and then drove out of Oxford to the Park and Ride on the A40, to Thornhill near Sandhurst. There they parked up at the very back of the huge car park to eat.

“We’ll crash here tonight. Got the 24 hours loos here, at least. If we get hassle after dark, it’ll be uniform and not the security firm. We can bullshit our way out of it.”

“We’ll have to move on for authenticity’s sake.”

“True.”

“I don’t really fancy sleeping in the back of a van Sir.” James shuddered.

“Alright?” Lewis touched his shoulder. “And stop calling me Sir.”

“I think I like it. It suits you.”

“You, my lad, underneath, are a kinky, dirty boy,” Lewis teased, still half in his character, and genuinely a tiny bit pissed.

“Or my undercover persona is. Seriously, do we have to?”

“I need time to think. And see if I can work this laptop and get your security access to it. It’s a bonny night, too warm. We’ll be fine. I bought quilts and sheets and pillows and all sorts with me for when we move in. It’s believable, isn’t it? Hotels and B&B’s are all booked up this time of year, and expensive. We’ve run half way down the country with bugger all, remember?”

“Yes,” James sighed, and didn’t say backs of vans, or at least a battered Land Rover, had all sorts of bad childhood associations.

They ate pizza and garlic bread in silence for a while. Then James suddenly demanded, as the last of the late night shoppers and day-trippers drove out of the car park and the sun began to sink behind them, “What is it we are doing, exactly, anyway?”

“When I know, I’ll let you know. I’m making this up as I go along, you know. It’s why I need to take time out, restock and think. I never expected my idea to be given the go ahead by Innocent or Stewart, let alone move so bloody fast!”

*

 

Kate Stewart sat, leaning back in her chair, feet up on the desk, cup of tea in her hands, a couple of biscuits balanced on the saucer, while she watched her large monitor in her office. It hung on the wall, opposite her desk. A smaller monitor and a separate laptop were also switched on, both angled at her from her desk. She was monitoring various CCTV in Oxford. Currently she was switching from two cameras in the Thornhill Park and Ride, both showing different angles of a blue transit van. She zoomed in with the camera situated high on a lamppost and focused into the van, switching the images over, so that was the camera she’d zoomed in on was the one on the large wall screen. It showed two men, one older, with dark, greying hair, and a younger man, with a blond skinhead. They were eating pizza and talking. Unfortunately, no amount of zoom could tell her what they were talking about. She had been monitoring her undercover Thames Valley Wolves, on and off, all that day, since Greyhound 17 had returned to the Tower having dispatched the secure laptop.

Meanwhile, on her laptop she was scanning the correspondence from her Harvard liaison with UNIT USA, a Major Kreer. She also had a window open of the Blood and Thunder years of her father, with particularly reference to all her father had documented on a particular menace of those days, a renegade Time Lord. Not, however, a useful one like the Doctor or the female previously located in Oxford. Kate didn’t know where that one was, whether she would still be of use, one of her father’s many returns from retirement had something to do with her, and her disappearance from Lady Julian’s. This one, Kate decided, was less a serious threat than maybe her father had anticipated, more just mentally unstable. He had caused all kinds of trouble, she could see, but once cottoned onto, had been easily dealt with each and every time. She hoped, if he were involved, it would be quite straightforward to shut this ‘experimentation’ down. Why he would do this, she had no idea; it was only the coincidence of the two professors’ names that rang any alarm bells at all. It was still far more likely that a biochemist or medical researcher, backed by a pharmaceutical company, wanting to circumvent stringent safety legislation when it came to drug testing. Perhaps a company was seeking a cheaper, more profitable, replacement for methadone?

Her laptop bleeped. She had a Skype connection. Or rather, not actually Sykpe, it was being carried on a separate, secure signal. She placed the teacup and saucer carefully on the desk before lowering her feet and legs and sitting upright. She answered, clicking on her webcam,

“Osgood. Anything to report?”

“Plenty Kate, I’m not sure how useful anything will be.” Osgood was sat on a bed, a wall and a generic print found in any hotel room and cream walls behind her.

“Well, go ahead then.”

“I’ve spent the day visiting the Oxford Science Park, and then both Harwell and Culham. Nothing doing in any place. There’s some interesting work going on at both Culham and Harwell, though, one to do with fusion, the other looks to be temporal. I recommend you do dispatch a couple of my team to just take a look.”

“Noted.”

“Tomorrow I’m going to go into Midsomer. There’s a couple of pharmaceutical companies that have research centres there, out in Bledlow and Lane End.”

“Fine. Keep me posted tomorrow.”

“What about your end? Any luck with you know who and the names. Did you get the photo of Keller I sent?”

“Yes. He doesn’t match any of the images we have. In fact, as far as I can find, we only have imagery for definite for one incarnation only. We have a couple of possible sightings at the Pharos Project that seems to be him. Both men are far shorter than this Keller we have. Or this Thascales.”

“What about this Thascales?”

“I can’t access an image, which is odd, apart from an old ID photo from the university’s web page and a couple of yearbooks from Oxford and Athens, and he had no beard, and that does seem to be a trademark. A Major Kreer tells me that Thascales has federal and military funding from Washington for this research. Wanting to isolate what makes addicts dependant. I guess the mental health funding is a front; I don’t want to know why the CIA wants to know how people get addicted.

“Thascales himself was at Yale before Harvard, and before that, Oxford, where he presumably knows this Keller from – if this is a coincidence of course – and his first degree is from Athens. He has a Greek passport originally, but a Green Card. The US seems happy he is who he says he is, a Greek human academic.” Kate shrugged. “What about your impressions of Keller?”

“Well, the research project of his graduate student is far more advanced than the team at Harvard, and is obviously intended for proper medical intervention. I seriously think he wants a vaccine against addiction and/or the high a drug might give. He seems a sweet boy if scared, according to this Inspector Lewis’ notes. Keller seems a proud tutor and a facilitating supervisor. On paper. That said...”

“Yes?”

“Well...”

“Osgood?”

“It’s not scientific Kate.”

“I asked for your impressions, didn’t I?”

“He’s smooth. Too smooth. And creepy. He dresses in black silk, expensive suits, and has a little black goatee beard. He makes you feel cold inside. And was far too charming and cooperative, as if he might be hiding something. I couldn’t get close enough to monitor his heartbeat though. Sorry.”

“Go to these drugs companies tomorrow. Then make another appointment to meet Kettering and Keller together for later this week. See what you can scan then.”

“What if...?”

“We will still need evidence of wrong doing and/or it is him. After all, Oxford is stuffed to the rafters with Time Lord refugees from the Time War. Our policy is one of ignoring and denying, remember? We leave persecution to Torchwood.”

“Fine. Good night Kate.”

“Sleep well Osgood.” Kate picked up her tea. It was now stone cold. She switched the large screen back to the CCTV monitoring. The men were no longer in the front. A light was visible creeping out of a crack in the back. “And sleep well, Robbie Lewis and James Hathaway,” she muttered to herself, before closing everything down and going in search of more tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: Now classic Who fans at least have a possible suspect (I make no comments either way) a little note on this alternative universe’s place in the multiverse.
> 
> Cold Summer et al is just a step to the left in the Lewis canon, but a slide to the right in the Who ’verse. Now, with various names and people, I think this is placing us in the Virgin New Adventures universe. A certain person may or may not in fact be the incarnation that is in David A. McIntee’s ‘First Frontier’, the one who emerges after the regeneration caused by Ace shooting him :)
> 
> Note 2: Bledlow cum Saunderton and Lane’ end are in Buckinghamshire and do indeed have pharmaceutical companies located there. One has also been used as a location in filming Midsomer Murders. As has its bigger, prettier sisters. Bledlow and Bledlow Ridge :)
> 
> Note 3. I apologise to the Blackbird pub. I have not been there since the mid 1990s and I no way intend to imply that for real stolen goods and drugs are ever sold there in 2010, when this is set, or now, nor that any underage drinking or smoking happens there.


	14. Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day two, undercover...

Robbie woke early, his back killing him. He’d not considered this when thinking of their undercover personas or situations. He resolved there and then to buy some ibuprofen and simply take some each night and morning as backache prevention. It wouldn’t hurt, could it? Not in the long run.

It was very early, maybe before six o’clock, although he thought it was probably the sounds of cars and people as those who used the park and ride for London and not Oxford, getting on one of the two coach companies that ran the every ten minutes services to London, that woke him, although the birds were also making a racket as they welcomed the dawn. Soft light and the already almost uncomfortable warmth of the basic metal box they were curled up in told him it was going to be yet another relentlessly hot and sunny day. This heat wave certainly seemed intending on staying throughout this August.

He looked down at James, wrapped up in the largest of the two quilts he had packed, curled up with his back to him, hugging one of the pillows, his thumb sticking out of a lightly curled fist, pressed to his cheek, glistening with spittle, as if he had only recently stopped sucking it. He looked so young and vulnerable, it broke his heart. Would people really believe such a beautiful young man was his boyfriend?

But he was, wasn’t he? In reality. Amazingly. Bloody marvellous, in fact. So why couldn’t he be here, too? With a lack of career and education, although who was to say this undercover James wasn’t as educated, just a junkie who dropped out? One who was looking for a protector, and maybe a dealer. A pimp? He said not, but if he was to be such a hardened criminal with drug issues, would he...?

Lewis thought back to his time as a young DC in Vice, and before that, in Uniform, on the streets of Newcastle. The type of young man he’d arrested then was what he was aiming for, but obviously older and but necessarily wiser. Someone who had done time, someone who didn’t respect the law. And someone who was probably bi, like himself, but maybe was more than a little manipulative of his James and his vulnerabilities than he would ever be.

Soon the car park would be filling up, and if they didn’t want hassle from the car park’s security company or uniform, they had better made tracks. He reached out and gently shook James’ shoulder.

“Howay pet. Wakey-wakey.”

“Uh. Wha-? Leave me alone...” James turned slightly, opened one eye, battered Robbie’s arm away and pulled the quilt over his head.

“Come on sleepyhead. We’ve got to move soon else we’ll get hassle. I’m going to use the toilets, have a slash, and clean my teeth. Back soon. Shake a leg, yeah love?” With that, he wriggled back into his sweatpants and pulled on his trainers and kicked open the van backdoor and slowly climbed out, stretching his back as he raised his arms above his head.

James watched Robbie through squinting, half-closed eyes. Eyes like a cat, Robbie thought suddenly, or even a half-blind kitten. He thought James was struggling to wake and to process why he was speaking the way he was, where they were.

“We’re in Oxford, remember love? Had to leave, didn’t we”

“Oh. Yeah.” James sounded confused and sleepy.

“Going for a piss. Back soon.” Lewis pushed the door back closed and left him to it.

As soon as Lewis was gone James sat up and pushed off the quilt. He crawled over to the back of the van, behind the seats, and fumbled around in his backpack for his contacts. He hurriedly, without thought to even washing his hands first, put in his 24 hour dissolvable ones. He had ordered a brand new three-month supply as soon as the possibility of going undercover had been hinted at a few days ago, and thus he had with him almost five months supply by his helpful new optician. If they remained undercover for any longer than that, and he dreaded to contemplate that, he supposed he was going to have to wear his glasses and he didn’t want Lewis to see him in those. He looked far too much like a geek. He knew that from far too much teasing at school. And from his father, of course. His father had always teased him mercilessly from the first pair he chose with his mother. Besides, he hated the vulnerability it gave one, glasses could be removed by someone else, knocked off by a suspect in a violent arrest situation, for one, or simply taken away for some reason, in an argument, even in love making, and then where was one? Blind as a bat and vulnerable.

Once he could see properly he began to fold up the quilts and stuff them back in the black bin sack, along with the pillows and blankets. He was also desperate for a pee, so glancing out of the van’s back door, he opted for relieving himself behind a tree near the van. Luckily this far back in the car park it was still nearly empty, but it was filling up fast. Buses and coaches seemed to be coming into the terminus every two to three minutes, leaving straight away full of commuters on their way into Oxford or off in the other direction to London. James could hear a background hum of noise, which he took to be the London Road as more commuters, these in their cars, began their stressful drive to work.

James tried the passenger door of the van when he came back from the tree. Lewis had locked the cabin doors of the van. He sighed, realising that unless he wished to climb over the seats from the back, he had to wait to get in. Deciding his days of clambering over the back of vans and four by fours were long since past, he instead opted for pacing in front of the van whilst smoking. He used to love climbing over the farm truck and his father’s Land Rover when he was a young boy, he remembered. And sit at the front, pretending to turn the steering wheel and drive while his Dad loaded up. Simple days before the Summerhouse.

Why on earth was he thinking back to his early childhood! Lost in thought, he was startled as Lewis called cheerfully,

“Morning pet.” 

“Morning,” James replied, catching himself and how he was speaking. He must remember to let out his old accent and relax! He wasn’t himself. He had to remember that. How was Lewis doing this? He supposed his boss had had more time to get used to this idea and work out a ‘character’ to lead him to those who were supplying the cut heroin. But who was he that let his boyfriend call him a bitch and princess? He hadn’t forgotten the day before, even if in terms of the case, of possible beginnings of tracing the possible contaminated heroin supply back up the chain, they had three or four good leads.

Lewis thought James looked lost and a little confused. He supposed he hadn’t had time to brief him properly, explain what he had been thinking about. And then, of course, Kate had pushed Innocent and SEROCU, and pushed very hard, to get this operation set up as soon as possible. With every sense of irony she had called this Operation Poison Poppy.

“Got coffee,” he said, trying to inject a little normality into things, to bring James out of his worried thoughts. And they must be worried thoughts, Robbie decided; he had that little furrow on his brow that very few people noticed. “Machine coffee,” he went on, trying to sound cheerful, and trying to thicken his accent back to how it had been when he’d first moved to Oxford all those years ago. “Probably shit. Why don’t they have proper cafes at these places? Probably make a fortunate first thing; queue for the machine was a mile... What?” Robbie caught the pained look in James eyes before the lad looked away. What had he done? He had a feeling that he had said completely the wrong thing

“Pear Tree does,” James muttered quietly, his shoulders slumping, his whole body slouching, curling up. 

“Ah.” Robbie didn’t know what to say. He certainly had said the wrong thing! Why didn’t he just think? Pear Tree park and ride, the transport cafe at the lorry park behind the park and ride, was where Sergei Roschenkov had doped James’ tea. He really should shut up now. He’d been a right idiot. He’d probably just put his other foot right in it if he did try to put things right, say something else, he decided. He wanted to reach out, touch the boy’s shoulder, stroke his back, something to offer some kind of comfort, reassurance, proof he did understand what he had said was insensitive, but the damned plastic cups were in his hands, scolding his palms and fingers, as the bloody things had no insulation like a polystyrene one would.

“They were shit, though,” James said suddenly, straightening up and flicking his cigarette butt, still lit, away into the undergrowth behind the car park. “Filthy toilets.” He snorted humorously, “As for what they add to their tea... Well!” He turned to look at Robbie, his lips twitching into an upturn of an unhappy smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m not me, am I? It didn’t happen. Want me to take those coffees from you?”

“Um. Yeah. Look, I’m sorry, I...” Robbie felt so helpless and stupid in the face of his stupid, thoughtless comment. How could he have hurt James so? He moved to touch him, reaching out to James’ shoulder, despite the coffee. James shrugged violently.

“I. Said. Forget it!” James snapped, taking the coffee and sipping one. He obviously felt the same as Robbie, which was it was machine foul, but it was wet and warm and as all they had had left in the van that morning was a quarter of bottle of warm mineral water, any drink was welcome.

Once in the car James demanded before anything else could be said, “What are the plans for today Sir? We have one more night before we can move into the room.”

“It’s Robbie. At all times. Undercover us at nearly all times. I said,” Lewis found himself replying equally tersely.

“Sorry. Robbie. Well? What?”

“First, Cowley centre for a cheap and cheerful breakfast. We’ll be seen by the kind of people we’re trying to blend in with. Then, I reckon we’ll try this supplier I got. I had a quick look on the laptop after we did your palm and fingerprint scan.”

“When?” James demanded bluntly.

“When you nipped to the loo last night. I looked at the timelines and lists you did.”

“How?” James snapped even more harshly.

“I transferred them from your laptop yesterday morning.”

“You?” James asked, snorting mirthlessly.

“I’m not so useless as you all think! Was a time when I could...” Robbie began to respond hotly but he stopped himself. Somehow he felt that there was less of the usual banter about James’ snipes, but instead actual real spite. He had witnessed James with his claws out, the lad could be a real nasty, spiteful bastard to DCs and uniform at times, and he had had his spats with Laura too. Robbie decided he didn’t want to be on the receiving end, certainly not right now, even if perhaps he did deserve it for his park and ride cafe slip. So, instead, he sighed, “Oh! Forget it. We seem to be arguing for the bloody sake of it.”

“Sorry,” James spat out, staring out of the side window.

Robbie didn’t really feel it sounded as if James had meant it, but Robbie didn’t add anything else, merely moved on to focus on work. “The man who deals to that dealer I spoke to when we were watching the footie, he’s the one who’s boyfriend who died,” he said. “You remember, the little lad of sixteen, first try. We thought at the time the survivor was just a sad letch and an old addict. According to the sign-off at the time, as no crime, no suicide, no further action. Like so many of them.”

“Certainly Uniform nor SOCO found no sign of anything other than a small quantity for personal use, and in light of his bereavement that was overlooked, just removed and destroyed.” James sounded his usual, detached, professional self. But unfortunately Lewis didn’t need an exemplary sergeant right at that moment; he needed James to acclimatise to his undercover role.

“Bloody pain that,” Lewis said with a sigh. “If someone had listened to Hobson we’d might have had a bit of the toxic chemical in it’s cut state rather than just left in the bodies.”

“True. Or if one of the Uniform or SOCO attending the unexplained death had noticed the signs of dealing.”

“Yeah, but he could have flushed the lot down the loo anyways, before he phoned the ambulance for his boyfriend.”

“That’s true too. So, what is the plan?”

“We go round to his flat off the Cowley Road. I got his address. I tell him Matt sent me and I’m interested in buying. But first,” Robbie said, screwing up his plastic cup and tossing it in the passenger footwell by James’ feet, “a proper breakfast.” He started the van and pulled out of the parking space, leaving James to hurriedly put on his seatbelt whilst trying to not spill his coffee onto his jeans and leg. He failed.

*

Hobson had just concluded the post mortem of a young mother. She had been expecting her third, too. Hobson hated such things, two for the price of one. However, there was nothing to indicate foul play and she was explaining just that to DI Grainger when she saw someone hovering at the door, peering in through the plastic window, a young woman in black trousers and jacket with a ridiculously long striped scarf.

“Excuse me Inspector,” she said, peeling off her gloves and throwing them on to the floor before she stepped out of the room. Osgood had to move back very fast indeed to avoid the door hitting her as Hobson swung the door open with such force. “What are you doing here?” Hobson demanded. “I do have other work.”

“You’ve finished now though, haven’t you?”

“Well, almost. But I have three RTAs on their way. And don’t you watch the news, I will be busy later.”

“What? Oh! Afghanistan. Do you do those too?"

“How can you not know that a Home Office Forensic Pathologist gets saddled with the MOD’s work too these days. Intergovernmental outsourcing. After all, I will be working with the new Ministry of Justice soon, won’t I? Bloody stupid idea if you ask me...”

“We do work with the government, yes, but we are above them, really, and if the British Government won’t cough up we just go to Geneva. Or New York. We started off with NATO and expanded, you know. And we would never ask for an inquest for one of ours.”

“I should think not. I would refuse to lie, and what could I put? Death by ray gun or alien slime? You cover everything up.”

“Dr. Hobson. Your observations brought us in. We are not fighting aliens here; we are stopping people dying. Vulnerable people. I don’t care who is experimenting on them, a deluded student, a drugs corporation, or an alien. Do you?”

Hobson sighed deeply, centring herself. “No. I suppose not.” Hobson glanced into the mortuary at Grainger, who was pacing and trying not to glance at the body. “He’s not on the ‘need to know’, is he? Let me finish up with this and we’ll get coffee. You can tell me what this visit is about in my office.”

*

Robbie pulled away, swearing under his breath. James rolled his eyes and sighed. This new undercover Robbie Lewis had a foul mouth. He just hoped when all this was over the young constable wouldn’t recognise DI Lewis in the canteen or the Gents. Or would he be based at Cowley? James wasn’t sure where the boundary actually lay, or whether there was one. They certainly got called to plenty of unexplained deaths in East Oxford, although, to be fair, not all of them, only the more interesting ones. Some deaths were more unexplained than others, it would seem. Lewis would never be called out to a probable heroin overdose, usually. Or, at least, not until he had flagged it.

They did a circle, down Cowley, into Bullingdon Road and back up St Mary’s Street and into Magdalen Road again. Robbie parked up a little further back from where then had parked. They were watching a house that one of the mobile numbers James had been given was registered too. It was the kind of information that in the usual scheme of undercover they would have to wait for two meetings with their contact to get, but with the secure laptop Kate Stewart had provided, James had got into the PNC and traced the numbers. They had decided to do this after visiting the first suspect, the one who was a larger supplier rather than small time dealer, had proved to be out of his Union Street flat.

James sighed and pulled his feet and long legs up on to the seat and hugged himself.

“How long are we going to sit here?”

“Dunno. Thinking.”

“Fine. Do we – our new selves, have enough money for me to go into that shop there and get something to eat? I’m starving.”

“You always are, these days.”

“It’s the...”

“I know. Did you bring enough of it?”

“The Seroxat? How long is a piece of string? I have three months supply and my GP knows what I’m doing, knows I can’t come into the practice as myself, well at all, it being in the middle of our target area. She’s prepared for telephone consultations and posting the prescriptions to Hooper at the station. It meant being honest with Innocent about being on the antidepressants.”

“How did she take it?”

“She wasn’t happy, as you can imagine.”

“Nor am I, love, nor am I. It’s getting on for nearly two years since the Zelinksy case, isn’t it?”

“To be fair, I did start to get off them, but... Innocent thinks I’ve only been on them since the rapes.”

“Probably for the best. What about SEROCU?"

“They knew everything already.”

“They would. And they still okayed you? What did you say? You must have been bloody persuasive. Though, why am I surprised..? Hang on, what’s that?”

A car had just pulled up outside the house; a metallic green Nissan Micra. A young woman was climbing out. She was dressed in a floral maxi sundress and a crocheted cardigan of beige and went to the back of her car to lift out a box.

“Now, what’s that about?” Robbie asked. “Surely not delivering the goods in the afternoon so brazenly.”

“I recognise her.”

“From where?”

“She’s a volunteer. For the Door. I saw her at the Convent of St. Mary and St. James the Great.”

*

Osgood sat side by side at Hobson’s desk, looking at the monitor. The remnants of coffee, sandwiches, and cake littered the desk, as did Osgood’s notes. A chemical chain’s molecular structure was displayed on the screen.

“You know,” Osgood suddenly said thoughtfully, “maybe we need to turn the question on its head.”

“How do you mean?”

“Ask not why are people dying but why are they surviving. Maybe the survivors we know about are the tip of the iceberg. Maybe there are a lot of survivors out there. Maybe we need to know what is trying to be achieved first, rather than what it is.”

“You mean,” Hobson said slowly, “that the deaths are a by-product, and accident, as whatever it is is refined. That the heroin addicts of East Oxford are... lab rats?”

“I thought you had come to that conclusion?”

“Yes. By accident. That someone well meaning but mad was trying to kill or cure. Not coldly just releasing an early version for unlicensed experimentation. On humans! That’s... that’s...”

“The kind of thing we were set up for Dr. Hobson.”


	15. Day 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 undercover. They move in.

After the visit from the young volunteer from The Door, Lewis and Hathaway sat watching the house for a further hour, but saw nothing but a young woman go out with two toddlers in a double buggy. She returned half an hour later, as the weather, still warm and sticky, had turned to spots of rain. Lewis offered the opinion they had been up to the play park on Manzil Way. James had shrugged and suggested they try somewhere else.

They went back to Union Street but again it was empty. In the end they went back to watching the house again, and then spent the rest of the evening and night at the Blackbird again, making more contacts, but nothing so useful as the first night. They spent a second night in the back of the van at the same park and ride, eating breakfast at the McDonald’s a little way up the London Road.

They had a morning to kill before they could move into their undercover digs so they made their way back to Cowley Road and parked in the Tescos car park and walked up to the house, split into two flats, where this man who was supposed to supply other, small time, dealers, lived. Robbie, in his undercover persona, was going to attempt to buy from him.

They had to knock several times, banging hard. James hoped they weren’t knocking too much like the police and the whole supply of the man’s was being flushed down the toilet. Some unused samples to get to Hobson and Osgood would be very useful, he was certain, even if he had serious doubts about this whole idea of his boss’ to pose as a user-dealer. Dangerous, too, if he was ever called on to smoke it. James was prepared to risk all himself, even if he had to cross the line and toke a bit of an a-bomb. He certainly wouldn’t go further, and trust Robbie to sort him out, but if they had to prove their credentials, as it were, let it be his body that was fucked over. It was already a mess of various addictions and needs. Apart from the beer and the occasional brandy, what did Lewis do to his? He understood there had been some heavy drinking after his wife died, but apart from that, his boss, his boyfriend, was a clean living soul. Well, apart from the crappy chemicals in all those appalling ready meals Robbie called food...

“What you want?” An upstairs window had been opened and a man with straggling, thinning, long, salt and pepper, hair wearing an off-white, dirty string vest looked out. “Who the fuck are you?” he added, looking down at them.

“Name’s Robbie. Matt and Jim sent me. Met them up the Blackbird night before last. Said you might be able to help me get back on my feet. Just moved down from Newcastle.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Used to be in your line of work,” Robbie added. “Come on, let us in. Don’t want to talk about it yelling on the street, do we?”

“Hold on.”

They waited a while, and finally the door was opened. The man had pulled on a brightly patterned short sleeve shirt and shorts over the vest, and was shuffling in flip flops

“Who’s he?” the man slurred.

“That’s James. He’s with me.”

“Yeah, but who is he? Thinks I recognise him, like.”

“He’s my boyfriend, if you must know.”

“Sure I seen you in Tescos,” he nodded towards the back of the Cowley Road Tescos.

“No, I’ve just come down from Newcastle with Robbie, how can you?" Damn. He knew it was risky, but Lewis had been so insistent that he was the one to come undercover with him.

“James has got family round here, though, haven’t you love?”

“I’ve got an uncle or two and some cousins that live here, yeah,” James replied, and it wasn’t even a lie for once. James felt uncomfortable as the man’s scrutinising gaze swept over him. He felt sure if he had been seen, it would have been after work, in an expensive suit, maybe even designer shoes, decent expensive shirt and tie, and not dressed in cheap, tatty Primark jeans and check shirt. Yes, true, he did own a couple of checked shirts, soft, pastel colours, cotton, but not nasty, cheap things like this one.

“Come in then.”

He led them up the stairs that were bare, wooden slats, some almost rotten with woodworm in place. They found themselves straight into a large room running the front of the house – two bedrooms knocked into one, James guessed. Behind he could see a door leading to a short passageway, with two doors facing each other, one to the bedroom and one to the bathroom, James guessed. This room was a kitchenette cum living room. Piles of dirty, smelly crockery and pans were piled in the sink and either side, and the small hob was splashed with old grease, as were the tiling around it.

“Sit down.”

There was a greasy, dirty sofa that had seen better days covered in chocolate brown nylon that was probably even dated in the nineteen seventies, and a couple of mismatched easy chairs. This man was not the big time supplier they had hoped, only another user a little up the supply chain, buying a little extra than he needed and selling it on, hoping to make a profit to fund his next hit.

“Cheers,” Lewis threw himself down onto the sofa, sitting in the middle. The man, William Parks according to the file, Billy according to Matt at the Blackbird, sat down in the stained, faded, black and tan easy chair. That left the beige chair that looked like it was once part of a three piece suite, the hard backed dining chair, covered with a pile of, James supposed, clean washing, but it didn’t look that clean and smelt damp, or squashing in the sofa corner, next to Robbie. “Sit down pet,” Robbie instructed. And it felt like an instruction. Again, James asked himself what sort of role had Lewis in mind for him? And did it reflect, in any small way at all, some deep down, core attitude that his boss and boyfriend had about him. There had been, after all, something said before Lewis has gone away on holiday. True, he had started it by having a flashback and hitting out again.

God, he hoped he didn’t have a flashback undercover, while they were in these digs they were going to move into the next day.

The room smelt foul. The coffee table was littered with overflowing ashtrays, mugs with unidentified congealed drinks and sometimes mould growing in them, and plenty of screwed up foil and split plastic takeaway containers, again, many growing nasty species of mould or, possibly, worse. The whole room smelt rank. James fished out his cigarette papers and tobacco from his pocket. Normally a polite boy, he would of course, as himself, ask if the homeowner would mind. Here, the state of the table and the whole room, he just rolled up and lit it. The sweet smell of his tobacco at least covered the stench a little.

“Let’s not piss about,” Robbie said. “Matt says you can get me some Charley.”

“Why d’ya want it man? You look clean to me.”

“My baby there has a bit of a chicken shit habit, but I used to deal. Big time. Used to distribute for the Roschenkovs-”

James swallowed back a small flinch and gasp of annoyance or shock; he couldn’t really tell what he was thinking. Or feeling. Robbie stood on his toe.

“Every heard of them?”

“No. I’m strictly small time man. You need to find someone else.”

“Tell me who you buy from then.”

“Like why should I trust you? What you after anyway?"

“Smack. White stuff. You know?”

“You might be pigs for all I know. Gonna make a call. Where you say you’re from?”

“Newcastle.”

“Yeah, thought so. The voice.” Billy rifled through the mess and filth on his coffee table until he found his phone. Robbie looked at James and nodded slightly towards the back of the room.

“Can I use the loo?" James asked.

“Help yourself sweetie,” he said, scrolling down his contacts and not looking up.

James made sure he accidentally closed the hallway door to the living room behind him so he could have a quick look around the bedroom. The sheets were stained and smelt rank, a grey and black duvet set of geometric design. Some prints of old album covers adorned the walls, the Beatles’ ‘Sergeant Pepper’s’ of course, Pink Floyd’s ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ and Midnight Addiction’s ‘Counter Culture Blues’ and some more obscure prog rock, including Frank Zappa’s ‘The Grand Wazoo’, and Genesis’ ‘Selling England by the Pound’. An old record player that looked to be forty years old if a day sat on a plank balanced across a couple of piles of bricks, with piles of dusty records underneath. James estimated the man could survive for years on the proceeds from Ebay and Amazon market place by selling his record collection. There was always quite a market out there for original vinyl. Something was still precious, he guessed.

There was no sign of heroin in any form, nor any other drug, just a half empty bottle of gin by the bed, along with a glass of water and a couple of cans of Coke, both empty. And, of course, yet another overflowing ashtray. There was also a half empty packet of condoms, spilling out of its box, and a tube of scented lube. James thought there was a couple of used ones lying under the bed among the screwed up tissues and dirty underwear and socks, but he didn’t want to look to closely. He’d glanced once to check for any drugs, and once was far more than enough.

The bathroom was appallingly filthy. If he hadn’t drunk so much coffee, cola, and juice on already that morning he wouldn’t have bothered. And then he had to force himself to look around. But no, again, there was no sign of any illegal drugs, not even a bag of weed.

When James came back Lewis and Billy were staring at each other across the room.

“So?” Lewis was snarling as James came into the room. Both men turned to look at him.

“Let’s negotiate first, yeah?”

“Your man there told you who the Roschenkovs are, so you know I’m not to be messed with.”

“Whatever. I just want to know how much for your bitch. We can talk a discount, yeah?”

“My... what?”

“He means me,” James supplied helpfully.

“My what?” Lewis roared. “My bitch?”

“Yeah, come on, if you are who you say you are, right? How much? We’ll knock it off what you pay.”

“You were going to give your man’s number, right? I was going straight to him.”

“Then it’ll cost you. For the information.”

“James is not for sale!” Lewis roared again, launching himself at Billy.

It all happened so fast. James had just taken on board that Lewis had got a link to a bigger pusher and then he also realised that he was being assumed to be a prostitute when suddenly Lewis was moving so fast it was a blur. One minute he was shouting, his fists balling, one could almost imagine the hairs on the back of his neck rising, and the next minute, Billy was pinned to the wall, Lewis holding him to the wall with an arm pressed again his neck. James checked his impulse to yell something, to call Lewis back into line, as Lewis was started to punch with his free left arm. He wanted to badly call Lewis ‘Sir’, to remind him he was so far crossing the line he might never get back, but he knew that they were undercover and he couldn’t blow it. Rules did get blurred undercover, but Lewis’ ‘persona’ at times seemed to take over. Unless, there was a violent, deep core to Lewis he didn’t know about.

He had to stay in cover. But how? Billy was now gasping for breath and struggling desperately.

“Robbie. Leave it. He ain’t worth it!” he started to protest in his more local accent. “Stop it. He ain’t worth it.”

Billy’s lips were going blue and he was slacking in Lewis’ grasp.

“You’re killing him!” he roared at the top of his voice, forcing his voice deeper and more authoritative, as he had been trained.

Something seemed to snap in Lewis and he let go of Billy, who sank to the floor, choking and gasping for breath. James bent down to check him.

“You’re alright,” he said, reassured Billy wasn’t having a heart attack at least. He looked up, Lewis was standing, staring at the floor, his fists balled, his breath coming out in sharp, angry puffs, his shoulders heaving. He was obviously trying to calm himself.

“You too sweetheart. Ta,” Billy said hoarsely.

“Sorry about...” James smiled thinly at Billy. “Let’s go Robbie,” he said, standing.

“Wait. I need that number Billy.”

“You think I’ll give it to you now. Fuck off out of my flat.”

Lewis made a movement towards Billy, who flinched. James gripped his arm. “Come on Robbie,” he said, pulling.

*

Lewis stalked across the car park to the van. James was worried how far he still seemed to be in character, as it were, and how angry he still was.

“Give me the keys.”

“What?”

“You heard. Give me the keys.”

“No way. I drive.”

“I. Said. Give. Me. The. Keys,” James demanded coldly.

“Fuck off pet, I said I drive.”

“Give me the keys!” James yelled. “You’re way too angry to drive!” He had only ever yelled at his boss in the street, or ever as far as he could remember, once. That time after Gay Pride after Will had killed himself, before Fearadorcha, no Zoe, had tried to kill him. Like then, unlike he would have wished, instead of deepening his voice to sound authoritative, it skittered up way to high.

It seemed to reach Lewis anyway. He sighed and pulled the van keys from his pocket and handed to James. “I’ve been a dick, haven’t I?"

“Yes,” was all James said, and unlocked the passenger door for Robbie. They would talk more out of earshot. 

*

James drove the van out of the car park and back onto the Cowley Road. It wasn’t until he had turned into Circus Street he realised he had been driving home. Stupid! Not his home now. Not this James’ home at all. He kept going, turning up Iffley Road and just kept going. He pulled up a long way up, in front of a chip shop. He turned off the engine and pulled the keys out of the ignition before turning to his boss,

“What the hell has got into you Sir? Firstly, are you serious about this dealer act? Have you got the authority to be so far undercover? Secondly, you had the name of a supplier, someone who knew the Roschekovs, and that has to be big time. But that leads me to my third bloody question – why throw the Roschenkov name about? You could have warned me. It really shook me up...”

“Sorry James, I should of...”

“And finally Sir! What you did. Was that really necessary? Really?” James was shouting the last word, almost shaking with anger now. He hated getting angry; he particularly hated getting angry with Lewis.

“That bastard...” Lewis began.

“...Was a sad old queen, a pathetic letch, a waste of space. He’s not a Roschenkov and I wasn’t drugged,” James finished for him. “A simple no would have been fine. I could have said no. You didn’t have to pound the poor old sod to the ground.”

Lewis remained still and silent.

“If it comes to it, nor was that man in Barton a few weeks ago. He was no threat; I had the situation in hand. You didn’t need to come racing to my rescue from our other witness. Seriously Sir,” James went on. His voice was quiet, firm, but that only emphasised how angry he was feeling with Lewis.

Lewis stared out of his window, resolutely not looking at James.

“I know that part of you was in this undercover persona you’ve invented, but that was bang out of order. It was unnecessary. You give yourself away Robbie. The real you.”

Lewis snorted, still not looking at James.

“I can look after myself. You have to stop treating me like cut glass crystal Sir. Please. You’ll compromise this investigation. We’re undercover, I get that, and this relationship is not like ours, I get that too. But you’re using it as an excuse to protect me. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? You don’t want to leave me behind? Well, I could compromise this; I live in the target area, and you – You Sir! You could ruin your career if you carry on. Look...”

Lewis still pointedly stared forward out of the windscreen.

James, annoyed at Lewis unresponsiveness, grabbed Lewis’ face and made him look at him.

“Look at me. I’m fine. I’m here. I can look after myself. And you, if it comes to it. You have to deal with this Sir... Robbie...”

“Deal with what sergeant?” Lewis asked coldly.

“Sergeant is it now? You told me we are undercover at all times.”

Lewis snorted and said sarcastically, “Then drop the sirs!”

“Look Robbie, you told me you want to be with me. That you understand I need time. That we have all the time in the world to sort this.”

“I do. We have.”

“Then deal with your feelings. Please. Put them to onside while we’re undercover, at least. I am. I know we are both stupidly rubbish at talking about our feeling. But we don’t have the luxury of time. We can’t let this undercover business ruin what we’re building. Can we?”

“We wont.”

“Sure? What was that about, strangling that poor man? We almost had the name of a big time heroin supplier. There can’t be many. We might have got Hobson and Osgood some of the cut stuff to analyse. But you blew it! Doing what? Protecting my so called honour?”

“I was...”

“You were what? I don’t need protecting. Okay? You need to deal with your feelings. Please Robbie. I know you probably think I’m a prick tease, but I am trying to deal with my feelings about what has happened. You practically killing every man who touches me or looks at me isn’t going to undo what happened or punish those Russian bastards, is it? Is it?”

“No,” Lewis said quietly.

They sat in silence for a while, until James, unable to stand it any longer, opened the door.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“For a smoke. And to get some chips. It’s a long time since breakfast. You’re mood might lift if we eat.”

“Get us a pie then. Steak and kidney.”

“Fine.”

When James came back a while later, with the food and some bottles of water, Lewis spoke calmly.

“I should have explained a bit more, but I’m making this up as I go along. I thought throwing the Roschenkov name about might help. There’s no one to contradict, is there? Most of their gang is under arrest, and we know they were bringing in heroin and taking out skunk. We know their final destination was always Newcastle. The best undercover works with what you know, with who you are. Who’s to say your undercover didn’t go through what you did? Maybe my undercover me challenged them and that’s why we ran. Or maybe we’re running from the Customs and Excise and Newcastle Constabulary Drugs mop up going on? Who knows? But I have to establish myself as a very protective, possessive, boyfriend, else, being users, some men are going to assume I’m prepared to pimp you for a fix, or that you are prepared to rent yourself for a fix.”

“So what if they do. I’ve been... people have thought I was a tart before, you know. I know, you know, and neither of us is going to really take drugs or prostitute or pimp ourselves, are we? It’s what I meant, it’s you, angry with what happened, wanting to protect me. Please, Robbie, don’t...” James broke off, and looked away, ducking his head down, afraid he suddenly felt like crying. He couldn’t see how this undercover as a couple was going to do anything but damage their fledging real relationship. Sighing, he put the key back in the ignition and drove the van back onto the road, pulling out into the traffic of the Iffley Road..

“Where are we going?” Lewis asked, hurriedly doing up his seatbelt while he held the bag of warm chips and pies.

“The river. Let’s go and eat our chips there. We need to eat and calm down. Water always helps me at least.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry love.”

“’S’okay.”

“Right. Then after it’ll be time to get moved in.”

*

A couple of hours later James followed Robbie as he unlocked the door the landlord had given them. The room was dirty, with little furniture, a double mattress in the corner, a broken, battered, old, four drawer chest of drawers with a mirror in a wooden frame, a hanging rail, and two battered orange armchairs that surely were left over from the 1960s? The curtains were brown velvet, looking like they were held together with dirt. The floor more was yet brown, dusty, worn carpet tiles. James supposed the walls had originally been cream, off-white, but they were tobacco brown now. The smell – James supposed his own flat smelt a little of cigarettes to Robbie! – was awful, nicotine, weed, dirt, dust, must, and damp. There was a large patch of it in the corner opposite the bed. James shuddered. He remembered the damp of their cottage his parents and he had moved into when he was twelve, the way however much his father put down damp treatment and his mother scrubbed and cleaned, the patches in the kitchen and front room had remained.

“Are we really staying here Sir?”

“S’sh. Who knows who is listening? All the time we remain here we remain in our undercover characters. Understood sergeant?” Lewis whispered, before raising his voice to a more natural one. “’Course we’re bloody staying here James. I’ve got make us some bloody money before we can get anything better. What did you expect, eh? You know how fucking fast I had to get out of Newcastle.”

“But it’s.. it’s... do we have some money? For cleaning stuff? Bedding?” James walked in and poked the bed with a finger. “Could be bed bugs for all we know.”

Lewis looked at James, and then the bed. “Alright then. Yeah. Okay.” He looked back at the door. A woman dressed in pink checked pyjama trousers and a baggy grey tee shirt was staring at them in the doorway of their room. She had sticking up short hair that was dyed purple but with about an inch of dark brown roots showing. “Hi.” He pulled his wallet out and peeled out a fiver. “This is all I’ve got love. This is James, I’m Robbie, what’s your name love? D’you live here?”

“Yeah, I’m in the little attic room above you. The tower. Like a princess,” she giggled awkwardly and then said, “I’m Kath. You from the north then? Is that your accent?”

“I’m from Newcastle. James is from around here which is why we’ve come down, sort of.”

“Oh. Right. Dave 2 died in that room. They tell you that?”

“I am not staying here...” James began; trying to sound panicked and shocked. Of course he knew. They were here with the landlord’s co-operation. The previous occupant had been one of the victims of this mysterious chemical that was being mixed with the local heroin. He had been a user. So were several other tenants, which is why they had picked the place as a base to establish themselves in their new undercover identity.

“James, we were lucky to find this place. Jesus, do you know how much more expensive Oxford is to Newcastle? So what? Did we know him? People die all the fucking time. I gave you the money to clean this place, so get going you stupid fucking bitch!”

James stared at Lewis a moment, startled yet again at how his boss was behaving, but he supposed he was establishing his ‘character’ to this housemate and to any others who were listening. They had talked a bit more about Robbie’s undercover ‘persona’ earlier but not really how much James was supposed to react to it. How much was he supposed to put up with? He decided not to react. Treat it as normal, that he was sworn at and called names.

Although, the context, even more then the first night at the Blackbird, told him in what context Lewis was using the word. After all, crude as it was, James wanted to get over all his trauma, wanted to make love, be made love to, wanted to be, for a better word, Lewis’ bitch. But he felt certain, after Lewis’ reaction to Billy that morning, Lewis wasn’t using the word to mean that, to mean a passive lover. He meant it as a feminising, nasty insult. Or maybe he meant it like a gangster with his girlfriend maybe?

He was going to have to swallow it down and accept it, however Lewis meant it, however he said it, and hope and pray it was all this undercover Robbie that said and believed it, and hope his gentle, respectful, Lewis was still there, once they came back out of this.

“Oh. Fine,” James said as he pushed past Kath and stormed down the stairs. It was only once he was in the street he questioned himself for accepting this and who this other James was? Was his undercover persona one of a doormat?

* 

When James returned from the Tesco Metro on the Cowley Road he found that Lewis was in the front room with Kath and two men, one also in nightwear, who sat on a sofa with his arm around Kath. He had dirty dreadlocks and a beard. The other man was skinning up a spliff and sat in the armchair. He had a shaven head and a tattooed neck, dressed in a Liverpool football shirt and grey sweatpants. Lewis was sprawled on the second sofa and drinking Newcastle Brown out of a can. The TV was on, showing Jeremy Kyle.

“You back then love.”

“Hiya,” Kath said. “This is my boyfriend, Dave. Used to be Dave 1 but I told you... you know. And this is Chaz. This is James everyone, he’s Robbie’s boyfriend.”

“Seriously?” Chaz said. “Never had you down as a poof, Robbie.”

“Problem?” Lewis demanded, leaning forward menacingly.

“Not in the least mate. Live and let live, that’s what I say. You toke, James? I know your Robbie don’t. He says he used to sell, but don’t like being out of it himself. Fair enough. You gonna start up here then?”

“Not given it much thought yet. Had to leave in a hurry, to be honest, but yeah, what else would I do eh?”

They hadn’t talked about this, what to do, how to blend in. It would look suspicious, wouldn’t it, if they both didn’t touch anything? He knew what he had said in the van, but he had meant heroin really. This was only a bit of grass, after all.

“Yeah. Thanks.” James took the proffered spiff and took a small a drag as possible before handing it on to Kath. He knew that he had only recently said they weren’t going to do anything, but they had to blend, didn’t they? He was aware that Lewis was attempting to cover up the suspicious look he was instinctively giving him with another one. He did it well, too, giving James an excuse to get away and smoke no more.

“Are you supposed to be scrubbing our room then?”

“Um, yeah.” James stumbled out into the hall and up the stairs. He felt a little swimmy in the head. It was a long, long, time since he’d smoked any cannabis. Once upstairs he went into the bathroom and drank a lot of water from the tap before getting back to the room that was to be ‘home’ for the duration of their being undercover.

He scrubbed and sterilised and cleaned for hours until he was completely exhausted. Lewis had gone out ages okay and had only just come back again, carrying their bags. As well as the large black bin bag containing the quilts, there was another that hadn’t been in the van before, containing pillows, mattress protector and clean sheets, along with a box with a kettle, toaster, bread, tea, powdered milk, packet of biscuits and cans of both cola and beer. He was sitting in the middle of the floor, still not convinced the room was safe enough to sleep in, when Lewis entered the room. Lewis kicked the door shut.

“Got our gear from the van.”

“Uh?”

“You look done in. Smells clean in here now. Well done.” Lewis lowered himself to the floor slowly after putting down the box and extra bedding. “It’s old stuff from mine,” he whispered. “We can leave it here or bin it when we’re done here. You alright pet? You look pale.”

“I’ve scrubbed everywhere, at least twice, but I can’t shift the damp and I can’t help looking at that bed and...”

“I got us a mattress protector and three sheets. Looks dreadful, years of God knows what soaked into it, but I doubt there’ll be bedbugs. Got to talk to you about the cleaning stuff, though,” Lewis was still talking in a very low voice.

“What?” James dropped his voice to match his boss’.

“Fortunately the three tenants we met are out of their tree, and the others aren’t here, but that little lot cost a lot more than a fiver, didn’t it?”

“Well, I didn’t want to really...” James pulled the note out of his pocket and gave it to Lewis. “Your money, Sir.”

“Ta. But what did I say? In character James, okay?”

“Uh-huh.” James nodded.

“Shall we make up the bed and unpack and then we’ll go out for a meal yeah?” Robbie said in a more normal voice. “I’ve not got much, so it’ll probably be fish and chips again or a kebab.”

“That’s fine,” James replied. They looked at each other, each knowing that they would talk once they were out of the house. So far they had been dropping in and out of undercover, unsuccessfully James felt, and they hadn’t really fixed who they would be and how they would behave, apart from a few almost stereotype ideas and Lewis’ scarily aggressive, possessive, criminal personality. Lewis was adamant that he hadn’t been his heavy but equally insistent that he wasn’t a former rent boy or hustler, so he didn’t know what he was playing.

Still, they were now established undercover in their ‘home’. There was no going back now. In the house where at least two dealers lived, and more users, and many more would visit. At least, James thought, relieved for Lewis’ back more than himself, they would spend no more nights in the back of a van. He looked at the mattress on the floor again, concerned for Robbie’s back, before following his boss out of the room.


	16. Day 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lewis and Hathaway meet up with their contact Hooper for the first time, and report to Kate.

Hooper stood in front of Innocent’s desk, trying to look at her as she railed and ranted at him at some length, looking up at him from her desk, radiating frustration and anger as she fiddled with her earrings she had long ago unclipped from her ears. He felt ten years old again, in the Headmaster’s office, taking the blame yet again for his older brother. Again. This time he was getting Lewis’ flak. He pulled at his ear and shuffled on his feet, one foot rising a little behind his other leg, as if he were trying to polish his shoe. Although he tried to focus on his boss, his gaze wandered to the bright blue sky through the window and the tree line across Christchurch meadow. Innocent had the window open and he could hear the buzz of people and traffic, the gurgle of the Isis and Cherwell meeting.

“And I’ve had three more emails from the Chief Constable demanding why protocols were ignored,” she went on. “I have no answers. I can’t get to this Lethbridge Stewart myself. That’s another thing you can tell him. No, more than tell him, demand a contact phone number or email address.”

“He’s undercover Ma’am, he can no more contact U..., er, the other commander anymore than he can contact you,” Hooper ventured, feeling slightly sick, having only just been vetted and added onto the ‘need to know’ list concerning UNIT and Torchwood only three days previously, having had to have clearing to attend the multi agency Operation Poison Poppy briefing at 0800 yesterday in the Tower of London. As Lewis and Hathaway’s designated contact while undercover he had no choice, and Innocent had no choice but to brief him, refer him for vetting, and send him. She, herself, had found herself conveniently far to busy with other police matters to take a morning out to attend a meeting in London, let alone a day before for vetting and induction in the Tower. To be honest, Hooper didn’t remember much about the process, or indeed the briefing itself. Professor Osgood, the UNIT commander, a rather attractive blond woman preferring to be addressed only as Kate, and a slick, American Major in video conference. It had been good, however, to have a night in London at Thames Valley’s expense. He had taken his daughter out for dinner. She did worry him. She was settled at Bart’s. But had yet another obsessive crush on an unobtainable man, this one sounded both gay and deliberately cruel to her.

“There’s also the neglect of Balliol and Magdalen,” Innocent went on, “to say nothing of the Congressman and the US Embassy regarding the death of Amos Calvery. I suppose it’s left to me to be diplomatic, “ Innocent sighed, her stress obviously getting to her. “Oh. Sit down Alec.”

“Ma’am,” Hooper said, sitting down and starting to fiddle awkwardly with his cuff. It had a coffee stain on it. He hoped Innocent hadn’t noticed.

“Obviously the FBI has got wind that the Congressman’s son was no accidental drug overdose but part of a larger investigation into many deaths and are wanting to send an ‘observer’. What the hell am I going to do Hooper? Lewis is the UNIT operative in this, and he won’t want any FBI agent breathing down his neck.”

“Is it even possible for an American to go undercover among druggies in Cowley and East Oxford. I’m not sure they know we have anywhere outside the colleges and our ‘quaint’ buildings, much less a bloody working class criminal underclass among vast, normal housing estates?” Hooper wondered aloud.

“I want to know what to do if the Chief Constable can’t wriggle out of this,” Innocent said, ignoring Hooper’s interjection. “If we object I bet they’ll go straight to the Home Secretary, probably assuming we have something to hide, which of course, we do...”

“Calm down Ma’am. I’ll brief Lewis on all this, of course I will, along with all of Dr. Hobson and Prof Osgood’s recent conclusions. Just let me...” Hooper fished for his notebook and pulled it out of his pocket, glad for something to focus on, and wrote in his battered pocketbook with a chewed biro,

‘Her Maj’s knickers in a twist re CC, college student, diplomatic incident, FBI. She needs UNIT contact number and instructions re poss FBI observer and Congressman contacting HO and HS.’

He looked up and asked, “Anything else?”

Innocent sighed again and put down her earrings she had been fiddling with in her left hand, “Just... just see that they are alright Alec,” she sighed deeply. “It’s been a week. I keep worrying. I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve never had direct operational control for a deep undercover brief before. And as for Hathaway...”

Both officers were silent for a moment. Both were thinking of how Hathaway had been since being the victim of such a horrific, nasty and violent sexual assault back in May, only just over three months ago. Innocent was worrying about his state of mind, having to play being in a fake gay relationship, considering his confession of how damaged and guilt-ridden he was over his own sexuality that this attack had brought back into sharp focus for him. Hooper, meanwhile, had been with Hathaway when he began to flashback and recover some of the memories of the rapes the drugs had blanked out. He had been watching out for Hathaway ever since. Poor bastard. He hoped he didn’t get any more flashbacks, with Rohypnol you could never tell how long, if ever, how much the victim would remember.

“I know Ma’am. He’ll be fine. I mean. He’s good at undercover, in’t he? We all had him pegged for some posh nob, and it turns out his Dad was Estate Manager, not Lord of the Manor, eh?” Hooper tried to make light of it. Innocent, however, did not smile.

“Brief me as soon as you return Constable.”

“’Course Ma’am. ’Course I will.”

 

*

 

Much earlier that morning Lewis had received a text on his new, cheap, undercover, Nokia 3310:

‘Same service station. Pretend you have to go back to Newcastle. Need lots of time.’

“Oh shit! We’ve got to go back!” Lewis said, standing in the kitchen, leaning on the back wall, while talking to Spud.

“What love?” James said, washing up not just his and Robbie’s, but everybody’s, crockery. It had been getting to him, the piles of unwashed plates and pans, and he simply couldn’t ignore it any longer. A week was already too much!

Lewis showed James the text, giving him a meaningful ‘act up’ look.

“But,” began James, in his undercover persona’s Oxfordshire accented and sometimes whining voice, his ‘I’m scared of Robbie at the moment’, voice, “We can’t. It’s not safe. You said...”

“What’s up man?” Spud asked from the kitchen table, where he was finishing his breakfast of bread and jam, standing over it rather than sitting. He had long, dark hair, thinning on top, pulled into a ponytail, and was dressed in a raggedy black sweatshirt and black jeans. He was the only one in the whole house who worked in any way, and was having a coffee now he’d finished eating before he had to leave to get to his job. He was a dispatch rider for a publisher.

“We’ve got to sort out some shit out. That’s all. Back home.”

“That’s all!” protested James, following his unspoken instruction to act up to the full, “That’s all! Remember how we had to leave. Plus, it’s at least five hours each way...”

“No one said you had to come, did they? So stop your whining, you pathetic bitch!”

Hathaway ducked his head, flinching. He splashed the washing up water angrily. “I’m coming. Of course I’m coming.”

“You really shouldn’t talk to him like that man,” Spud said gently, crossing the room to stand in front of Robbie.

“What’s it got to do with you?” Lewis snapped, staring Spud down, deep in his violent undercover persona.

“I don’t like it. I wouldn’t let anyone I know talk to their girlfriend like that, so why should I let you talk to your boyfriend like that?” Spud stared back at Lewis, staring him down, refusing to be intimidated.

In the past week Hathaway had noticed that Spud was the peacemaker of the house, the one everyone, housemates and their friends, and even friends of friends, went to for advice. He only rarely got drunk, and then might be impatient with others, but never violent. He was the eldest in the house, apart from Robbie, a newcomer whom everyone was already beginning to fear. No one seemed to know what to make of Robbie, a hard, Northern ex-con, ex-dealer, ex who knew what. He had a nasty temper and was fleeing who knew what gangland or legal retribution, and yet he had a younger, seemingly vulnerable, sweet, boyfriend (and Hathaway worked hard at the sweet and vulnerable, to balance Robbie, to gain the confidences while Robbie scared them shitless). He just didn’t fit into anyone’s stereotyped worldview, Hathaway had decided. Lewis had explained, that was the point; it drew them away from any sniff of police officers undercover; they were too different to be anything other than genuinely who they said they were. Besides, he had laughed, he did have a precedent. But when questioned, Lewis tapped the side of his nose and grinned,

“See, there are some things you don’t know, James.”

But now, Spud slapped James lightly on the shoulder as he carried on washing up. Spud said softly, as he handed James his mug and plate, “And you, you shouldn’t put up with it. You’re worth ten of him.”

James supposed he was referring to this washing up, and more likely, all the cooking and feeding of the household he seemed to be doing. It hadn’t even been part of his plan to integrate and gain trust and thus information. Fed up with cheap takeaway chips and doner kebabs in previous few days James had been going to the supermarkets late in the evening and scooping up reduced vegetables, and meat if he could find some that wasn’t green or black, and making soups and casseroles out of them. First of all, Kath and Dave were so impressed, they told him if you went round the back of the supermarkets you could fish out the bins often perfectly good veg and fruit past their ‘sell-by date’ and so chucked out by law, and they started bringing him some every night for him to cook in return for a bit of blow. The others, drawn by appetising smells had begged for cooking lessons, for which they all, apart from Spud, proved spectacularly inept. Of course, all of them, on benefits or less, with habits to support, as well as having sometimes several mental health issues, and as such useless at budgeting, were all soon eating James’ cooking in return for cigarettes and tobacco and beer, for which they all seemed remarkably able to budget for. Robbie’s ‘persona’ was jealous of all the attention James got for cooking nutritious cheap food.

 

“What the fuck do you know?” Robbie was now snarling at Spud, grabbing him to make him listen as Spud went to retrieve his leathers from the back of the kitchen chair. “He was a fuck up on the streets before me. He’s nothing without me.” He let go of Spud with an almost growl and turned to James. “Get dressed now if you’re coming then. With luck we’ll be up there by two.”

 

*

 

“Sorry,” Robbie said as soon they were alone in the blue transit van, “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry...”

“You warned me,” James interrupted, afraid Robbie was going to carry on saying sorry until every ‘bitch’ and ‘whore’ and ‘stupid bastard’ were apologised for individually. “I know it’s not you. It’s okay. If you scare people with this ‘Robbie’ you portray they are more likely to give you the info to get you off their backs, I’m seeing that. And it’s working. The people in the house are leading us to so many users and dealers, like a spiders web spiralling out from us, and the more you’re a shit, the more you get talked about. I think it’s working, so don’t worry Sir. Please. I know that you wouldn’t treat me like that in a million years, not ever, not as your sergeant, not as your friend, and not as your lover. Don’t worry; I’m stronger than you think. This isn’t us. We’re acting. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Hope so James, I really hope so. Still so sorry for it. It worries me sometimes, where this is coming from. I’m half basing myself on this pimp I had to pretend to be years ago, back in Vice, in Newcastle. Maybe...”

“Sir?”

“What?”

“S’sh, please,” James said, sitting in the passenger seat, pulling out the small UNIT laptop and palm scanning it open. “I need to do something now, I really do, and at last we have the time and privacy to do it since we’ve been undercover. I’m going to feel so much more comfortable with our roles and the whole thing once it’s done. And so will you. I promise.

 

*

 

UNIT Wolf 6 beta, DS J Hathaway: input: undercover identities: initial notes on background:

Robert (Robbie) Matthews. 53. Was drug dealer and pimp in Newcastle. Employed by the Roschenkovs to sell and provide heroin and cannabis. Took trafficked girls to three ‘massage parlours’ he managed. Previous sentences for GBH, receiving stolen goods, possession with intent to supply, living of immoral earnings, ABH. Attacked Yuri Roschenkov and had to flee retribution. Businesses since closed down by Drugs and Customs and Excise and Immigration with mop up from Operations   
Fisher, Diamond and Prince. Legit business fronts the massage in the parlours and a taxi firm, that used some cars to run girls and drugs. Also closed down by Fraud and Tax. Essentially Robbie Matthews is on the run from all sides.

James (Jamie) Issacs. 30. From Oxfordshire originally. Went to Radley College on scholarship. Failed to get into Cambridge. Went to Durham. Got into drugs and drink in a big way. Dropped out. Worked at various jobs such as waiter, gardener, and cleaner. Could hold down no job. Always stoned. Homeless and desperate he met ‘Robbie’. ‘Robbie’ intended to pimp him (Issacs already renting himself) but fell in love and no intention to share. Lived together ever since. Issacs stays more for protection and safety and gratitude than love I think?

 

*

 

“Right, you done?” Lewis asked as he pulled the van into a parking space at the service station. “You’ve been back-spacing, deleting and swearing a lot.”

“Not sure.”

“Give it here. I need to do something with it myself now we have space and time for it.” 

Robbie read while James watched on nervously, biting the skin around his thumbnail.

“M’m. Not bad for a beginning, is it? You’ve made me a right bastard and you a complete fuck up.”

“Isn’t that what you had in mind? Catch the sympathy info from some while you get those to give intel out of fear?”

“Yup. Sort of. Kate never really gave us enough time for full prep, did she? Right, speak of the devil, she needs something from me.”

 

*

 

UNIT Wolf 6, DI R Lewis: data input: update sit rep:

5 small time dealers located. Some of all users they know have died or no longer want to buy. Too hard to work out pattern from casual conversations in front room and at pubs, etc.  
2 medium sized dealers. Info gained from one. Not much though. Need to go back. Working out how.  
Big suppliers were getting heroin from Roschenkovs. Unknown, shadowy source moved in to replace big hole in supply chain made when we took them down. Have no name. This is impression I get from conversations had and overheard in pubs and bits from the small cannabis dealer in house.  
No evidence as yet.  
Any big supplier details must be given to TVP Drugs first.  
STRESS: Important that TVP Drugs raid any dealer, not UNIT. UNIT will be passed all drugs recovered after any future raid via Osgood.

 

*

 

Hathaway and Lewis sat for over an hour in the far corner of the Cherwell M40 Services North bound’s restaurant drinking endless cups of tea and coffee, Lewis making his bacon roll last, Hathaway eating his almost immediately, then following it with an egg and mushroom muffin chaser and then an iced cinnamon bun.

“It’s the...” he began as he returned with his third latte and the bun.

“Seroxat,” Lewis finished for him. “Aye, I know. Playing at all this low-income living must have been torture for you. My poor baby.”

James looked up, “Did you just call me ‘baby’ Sir?”

“Problem sergeant?” Lewis asked, tease in his eyes and voice.

“Well, as your sergeant, there are all kinds of wrong about it,” James replied, semi seriously. “But was that you, or this other Robbie leaching over?”

“Me. Just me baby,” Lewis couldn’t resist adding. “I think, anyhow. Seventies spill over. That or I was just teasing you about being hungry all the time. Don’t be so uptight James. Do you really have a problem with it?”

“Um. No. I don’t think so.”

“And I will love you when you’re fat,” Robbie smiled as James went back to devouring his iced bun. “Mind you, you never do, you must burn it all off in nervous energy. Not like me,” Robbie patted his stomach. “Middle aged spread. Don’t know what you see in an old fart like me.”

“I love you. All of you,” James said fiercely. “You’re gorgeous!” he added with passion.

“Alright Sir? Sergeant? Interrupting am I?”

Robbie and James both sat back abruptly in their chairs, releasing each other’s hands that they had somehow found themselves holding.

Lewis coughed and said firmly, “Hooper,” at the same time as James stumbled out,

“We were, um, just, er...”

“Having some quality time as yourselves, yeah?” Hooper said, grinning, sitting down in between them at the end of the table. “How’s it been then?”

“So so,” said Lewis as Hathaway said,

“Bloody hard!”

“I’ll bet,” Hooper said, picking up his document case and dumping down on the table with a slap after he’d pushed his superior officers’ cups and plates to one side.

“But it’s okay now, James has written out biographies, so he knows who we are now.”

“I’ve had time for rough outlines, that’s all. If we had the time, we could have complete timelines of our fictional selves from birth to now, including the timeline of our dysfunctional ‘relationship’. As it is...”

“It’s a start,” Lewis said firmly, indicating that this discussion was at an end. “Hooper?”

“Right. Sorry Sir. Sergeant. But we’ve got a lot to cover.”

“Right then. Let’s crack on,” Lewis said. “But first, how’s Monty doing?”

 

*

 

message: to Kate Stewart CC G1. From Robbie Lewis TVW6  
1\. Innocent is getting hassle for TVP CC. Says you have skipped protocol and bruised a few egos. Better send a formal request for joint operation.  
2\. TVP CC getting hassle from FBI. 21st victim son of US Congressman. FBI want to send an ‘observer’, got wind it was not routine accidental overdose. Get FBI off my back asap.  
3\. Innocent wants your contact details. Leave that up to you. She needs reassurance I think.  
4\. Put in request to Drugs via Innocent for some white and grass to appear to be a real dealer. If I get a no (and I expect it to be no) can you sort it?  
send...  
encrypting...  
sent.

 

receiving...  
de-encrypting...  
received.  
message to Robbie Lewis TVW6. From Kate Stewart CC G1.  
1\. Done  
2\. Will liase with UNIT America to sort FBI  
3\. I’ll ring her and placate her  
4\. No problem!  
re previous message and required actions:  
1\. Shadowy mastermind big heroin supplier replacing this Russian mafia type family – is that master with a capital M? Please make finding this out as much a priority as locating contaminated source.   
query:  
1\. Your file state you previously worked with my father with a Time Lady designated ‘The Counsellor’ back in the 80s and 90s. She is no longer at Lady Julian’s. Do you know where she is?

 

message: to Kate Stewart CC G1. From Robbie Lewis TVW6  
Thanks.  
Re actions. Will do. Don’t like your train of thought. Not possible? Is it? Why? What motive?  
Re query. If I knew where she was I would not tell you without her permission. Suggest you check your father’s private notes and files. She is in place of safety with new identity both provided for by your father.  
Personal action: we are taking the rest of the day off undercover investigations. Will use time to properly plan our identities to better bed in when we return. Request you don’t spy on us with CCTV cameras! Will also complete data entry!  
Joint data: will be inputting all other actions/requests, intel so far into HOLMES 2 and DOCTOR first.  
send...  
encrypting...  
sent.

 

“Or I am,” James said, leaning over Robbie’s shoulder and reading as it began to encrypt, returning with another tray of tea and coffee, this time no more food for himself. “More tea?” he offered as he sat down.

“Ta love.”

James reached for the laptop that Robbie had moved to one side to pour his tea. He put his palm on the screen for the security scan and it lit up. It had automatically shut down since removed for Robbie’s body heat. He sighed and stretched his fingers before beginning. He turned to Robbie, “Not that we have many actions as yet, and no hard evidence, or any concrete leads. And we can’t give Drugs any small time names, can we? Suspicion will soon fall on us.”

“True. But it’s early days yet. These things take time. So, what do you fancy doing with the rest of the day. It’s our last chance, from tomorrow we’ll be imbedded fully in our undercover for who knows how long?”

“What?”

“Well, just for today, undercover ‘Robbie and James’ are still on their way to Newcastle, they won’t even get there for another hour at least. Then they have to sort whatever and drive back. So, we have some time to relax and be us, just for a bit. What do you say to that?”

“Well Sir, we can’t sit here indefinitely. How about we just come off at the next junction, find a nice country pub for a quiet lunch for starters. I do need somewhere quiet for a while – back of the van would do – as I do want to complete our persona’s biographies, timelines, and personality profiles, if you’re basing yours on your previous undercover in Vice I need to know it and then we can sketch in the past...?”

“Thirty years or so. Bloody hell! How long have I been a copper? I’m too old for all this. I’m guessing a good ten or more would have been spent in prison.”

“Fine. I also want to go back over the timelines and profiles of the victims and their families. We did find a few places that some has in common. I made a Venn diagram somewhere that gives us about five pubs, three cafes, and a couple of parks and a club as the most likely that many had in common, plus a list of several more pubs that quite a few had in common. I’m hoping whoever is logging all the new deaths is following up my lead and inputting any new likely venues.”

“Well, that would be Hooper, so don’t hold your breath. As for your thingy diagram, I transferred everything you did on all victims as well as everything else we had the day we went undercover.”

“Good, I want to list them for us to visit, prioritise them, write it out by hand to have it in my pocket – could easily look like a list of places to score if someone sees it. I also want to list what actions we need to follow first when we’re back in Oxford.”

“Keep an eye on William Parks of Union Street for starters – blew that contact, didn’t I? Right prat I was. Sorry again for that James.”

“Let’s just forget that. It didn’t happen Sir.”

“Thanks. Meanwhile, we also need to keep an eye on that couple on Magdalen Road, and her sister, and the whole group of them up at the Blackbird. Discrete mind, nothing heavy or obvious. And someone can find out from Customs who were the Roschenkovs contacts here in Oxford. Simon Cope is singing like a canary. He’ll help with intel. They’ve moved him to Strangeways, for his own protection. You can flag that one up for Peterson, his collar, and his liasing. Cope’s not said much yet to anyone about the drug smuggling side, only the people trafficking and prostitution rings. Let’s get it bumped up the priority list.”

“Of course. You’re wish is my command,” and with that Hathaway cracked his knuckles while stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders before hunching over the tiny laptop.

Lewis poured his tea and stared out of the window. He could see Hooper walking to his car, paper bag of takeaway in one hand, his phone in his other, to his ear. He’d taken his time after leaving them, had obviously gone back to the car once already, as he was without his document case and laptop.

 

*

 

Innocent looked up as soon as Hooper entered her office, a look of concern on her face that she could not hide.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Seems fine Ma’am. Lewis worried about his cat. And his daughter, of course. Hathaway seemed a little pale and thin, when well... he always is, isn’t he Ma’am? They’ve sort of been accepted by the rest of the house; meeting their friends, rippling out contacts of small time dealers and lots of users, though mostly cannabis rather than much heroin as yet. Heard about the housemate’s death, several others used his gear, all are alive and well, two out of the three are no longer users, apparently...”

“So. It seems Hobson and Osgood’s suspicions are valid. Let them know, will you?”

“Already sent the email Ma’am.”

“Good work.”

“Thanks. Lewis said he won’t keep the fake Job Centre claim appointment we set up – if he is on the run he in’t likely to draw attention to himself. Hathaway will though – after all, until he is actually apparently dealing or doing something else obvious, people are gonna wonder where any money is coming from and it’ll start to look suspicious.

“Makes sense. Anything else?”

“Yes Ma’am. I need to brief Inspector Peterson Ma’am.”

“What about, for heaven’s sake? This is spiralling massively in costs and manpower and who gets on to the need to know list! I’m going to need more back-up from Commander Stewart if this continues!”

“Our Roschenkov informant, Cope. Peterson dealt with him and still has leave to. Inspector Lewis would like any names re drugs in Oxford. So far all intel from Cope has been on people trafficking and the like, hasn’t it? And the... rapes. Well, one rape really, that we’ve been dealing with.”

“That one rape concluded three national and international operations, though.”

“Not likely anyone here sees it as a triumph for us at this station, really, though, is it? The Inspector really don’t need to know about the... other agency stuff, do he? Just that Lewis needs drugs info from a Roschenkov heavy.”

“If he has anything. Cope was a bit of an enforcer and a bouncer, protecting and punishing girls and pimps, he might not know much about the drugs side of things.”

“True Ma’am. But it really doesn’t hurt to ask.”

Innocent sighed deeply. “Fine. Leave it with me. I’ll decide on how much to tell Alan. Good work Hooper. Have the written reports on my desk by the end of the day. When have you agreed to meet next?”

“In another two weeks – probably at a pub or cafe in East Oxford next time. It’ll be much briefer.”

“Fine. In the meantime, keep me informed if Ngoti discovers anything useful with CCTV and the victims last hours. And tell Mercer I need to see her the moment she’s finished with Osgood for the day.”

“Ma’am,” said Hooper, taking his leave and hurrying back to his desk. He had over a dozen more crimes waiting for him that this undercover business had kept him from all day, far too long, considering how much he had to do. One crime from that week he’s been tasked with he was desperate to get back to – the theft of a specialised wheelchair that attached to a disabled child’s reinforced buggy. It had been taken from the family’s garden in South Oxford the night before, meaning she could no longer get her child to school or herself to work. What kind of low life bastard would do that? You couldn’t really sell it off easily. Hooper suspected a hate crime.

 

*

 

Lewis and Hathaway returned to their other lives as Matthews and Issacs in the early hours of the following morning. They had had a pleasant day, first a lovely pub lunch in an old pub that dated back to the seventeenth century, with oak beams in black and white painted plasterboard walls in between. They had had eaten a good meal of sausage, mash, mushy peas, and onion gravy for James and steak and kidney pie and chips with seasonal vegetables for Robbie, and a very nice pint of mild each. Then they meandered through the countryside on the back roads and lanes, stopping at a country manor for a look around and a walk in its extensive grounds and a cream tea in the National Trust cafe. They both knew they were pigging out somewhat, but after a week of appearing to be living on an extremely low income, with goodness knew how many more weeks stretching in front of them, they both agreed they deserved the spoiling.

They had stopped again later at a Forestry Commission site and went for another walk and then sat in the cooling evening light discussing and completing full histories and biographies of their undercover identities and the relationship of Matthews and Isaacs. It had been another gloriously hot and sunny day, far hotter than the seasonal norm, and sitting in the woodland shade in the fading light was the kind of relaxing treat both men needed. James also had treated himself to a packet of Malboro too, as all the other James back in East Oxford could afford was to smoke roll-ups.

They ended up in a restaurant in Stratford-upon-Avon, discussing Hamlet, or rather, James lectured Robbie on the symbolism of the insanity of various productions throughout the twentieth and early twenty-first century and their reflections of their times and those times understanding, attitudes and treatment of madness. Robbie was content to listen. He knew James was already touched and worried by the mental ill health of several housemates, and the lack of support they received.

 

*

 

When they finally returned it was gone three in the morning and both sides of the road were already cluttered with cars parked on both sides. They had to turn out into Aston Road, swing round into the main Iffley Road, come back into Magdalen Road to find somewhere to park as near to their house as they could get. In the end they found somewhere to park the van in Leopold Street and got out, both stretching their tired limbs. James, who had been driving all the way back through the night, stretched as gracefully as a cat, bearing his taut stomach, glinting milk-white in the streetlight. Robbie admired him as he stretched and rubbed at his own sore back, not looking forward to another night on that mattress on the floor, let alone countless nights ahead. He had slept most of the way back but he was still shattered. He yawned deeply, starting James off, before saying around the yawn,

“Howay lad, it’s good to be back.

“M’m,” James agreed, pulling his tee shirt back down. He locked the van and headed off towards Aston Street and the house. “I’ll get up to move it before nine. You just sleep in. you look like you –” He stopped speaking abruptly, as he stopped head in his tracks, next to a parked red car.

“James?” Robbie said cautiously, coming up to James and looking into the VW Polo hatchback as well.

Inside the car was a man. That was to say, a body. He was Asian, balding, with long, thin, black and grey rat tails of curls than hung dirtily down his neck from his incredibly receding hairline, some of it pushed over his balding spot in a ratty, almost dreaded, comb over. He had a silver and white goatee beard and silver framed glasses that had slipped down his wide nose, more African than Asian, James thought abstractly. The man might have been asleep if it hadn’t been for the bright yellow of what should have been the whites of his sightless open eyes, staring blankly ahead over the top of his spectacles. There was yellow-crusted foam that had dried around his full lips and thin beard. In his lap was a half smoked spliff, obviously, as Robbie remarked, an A-bomb joint. James continues to peer, half with horror, half with fascination. He had only seen the body at the college, the Congressman’s son Amos Calvery. He had not attended that nor any other PM or had he attended any other fatality to this experimental chemical additive that Hobson had flagged for Lewis.

“What is that yellow stuff? And Hobson said they don’t choke on their vomit?” James asked.

“No, they die of heart failure. She days that gunk comes up post-mortem, released with their death rattle.”

“What are we going to do? Can we call this in?”

Lewis sighed, pulled out his undercover cheap phone, sighed again and put it back into his pocket. He looked at James and shrugged.

“There’s still some call boxes by Manzil Way, by the bus stops by the park,” James supplied helpfully.

Lewis sighed again. “So there is. You, stay here – sort of secure the crime scene without actually doing it. Well, you know, try and keep it secure anyway. Just stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

It was nearly four o’clock on a Monday, or rather Tuesday morning. Who would be out, Hathaway wondered as he watched Lewis jog off in the dark towards the Cowley Road.

 

*

 

When Lewis found the phone boxes, and the then the one of the three still working by a process of elimination, and it would be third time lucky, he had to pause for a moment to remember how to work and pay for the call. Then he remembered dialling 999 would connect him immediately. Once he was put through to the police he didn’t preamble.

“4549 DI Robert Lewis, Oxford CID. I’m deep undercover. I’ve found a body. IC3 or 4. Male. Early to mid fifties. In red polo parked on corner of Leopold Street and St. Mary’s Street. Showing all the markers involved in my investigation. I need SOCO and it flagged for pathologist Dr. Hobson. Got that?”

“Just checking your ident number and name Sir.”

“You do that.”

“Okay Inspector. If the body a murder victim or something else, what’s showing on my screen with your flagged markers isn’t clear.”

“Aye. I know. It’s debatable. Side effect of unlicensed experimental substance, maybe? But the body’s got those markers you’re looking at so you should see it has a high priority for full forensic and pathology call out. Got that?”

“Yes Sir.”

“And keep me out of the official logs. I’m undercover. I’m just an unnamed caller reporting a dead body, okay?”

“I’ll need to get advice Sir.”

“You do that love,” Lewis said Kindly, remembering 999 call centre operatives sometimes were civilians, unlike when he was on the phone to TVP Control. He hung up and went back to James, where they waited discreetly near the car with the body until, six minutes after Robbie had returned to James, they saw the first flashing blue lights approached and melted back into the shadows, securing a crime scene and heading an investigation no longer in their purview.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is with some trepidation I post a new chapter, having received so many hits since I last did, more hits that any other work of mine has received. Please forgive the probably vast about of typos - please bear in mind a shakey hand and poor vision due to my health. The next chapter is half written on the laptop and the following one and a half in long hand so hopefully there will not be too long a wait for the next three.
> 
> As always, all comments, encouragement, and constructive crit welcome.


	17. Week 2

The following morning James dragged himself out of bed after little more than four hours sleep, stumbled out into the street, found the van, passing the VW Polo, now covered in a white scene tent, saw Dr Hobson, ducked his head, turned abruptly and left. If the car got a ticket, so be it, although if half the street was still closed as a SOC, then it was unlikely Traffic Wardens would be patrolling it. When he got back Spud was up, eating his Rice Krispies and making coffee.

“Hey James. Coffee?”

“Thanks.”

“You’re up early man, you got back, what like five hours ago?”

“I went to move the van but I couldn’t.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Police. Everywhere. Think it’s the body I found. No, I know it is.” James decided he needed to act like this was a big deal, finding a dead body. It had been once upon a time, when he couldn’t remember exactly, but he tried to recall how he felt in uniform attending his first fatal.

“Hey, hey, what happened man. Sit down.” Spud leapt to his feet and pushed James down into the soft easy chair that sat in the corner of the kitchen, next to the fridge-freezer.

“When we came back there was this man... dead in his car.”

“Bit gross, yeah. You ever seen a dead body before?”

James hesitated, then said, “Not like that. No.”

“Shock, yeah? I found Dave 2, the guy who used to be in your room.”

“Eugh! Spud! Gross. Don’t need to know right now!”

“What are we talking about?” said Chaz from the kitchen doorway. He was young, about Hathaway’s age, but going prematurely bald. He had shaved the rest down to a grade one skinhead to hide it, but being so dark haired, his bald spot was easily noticeably, particularly to someone as tall as James. He also was covered in tattoos, some quite intricate, like the serpent that coiled around his neck and the red and green dragon he had on his back, half covered by his vest. One arm was decorated with spirally Celtic designs, the other, Maori. None of the others were currently on show; he had on checked lounge pants in purple and pink. James has often wondered about getting a tattoo, but when younger he had always believed he was going to be a priest, and Catholic priests were absolutely not tattooed!

“Jamie found a body last night. When he and Robbie got back. He says there’s police crawling over the neighbourhood.”

“Shit! Do I need to flush the stash?”

“Doubt it. It... he...it was two streets over.”

“That coffee you got there, Spud?”

“Help yourself. Drink up yours Jamie.”

“Cooking tonight then?” Chaz asked, sitting down at the kitchen table, the end near to James in the easy chair.

“Got to run guys,” Spud said.

“Give us a lift man. It’s signing on day.”

“Get dressed quick then, I’m going in two minutes. I’m already late.”

“Sure,” Chaz drained his scolding coffee in one and rushed up to his room.

“Pay no attention Jamie man, if you don’t feel up to it, no worries. We all ate shit before you, just coz you’ve cooked for us since you moves it, don’t feel obliged.”

James shrugged. “I like to cook,” as he was left alone, curled up in the easy chair, contemplating life in his coffee mug. He was so tired. He supposed he ought to go back to bed.

 

*

 

|James brushed his teeth, something he’d been too exhausted to earlier, and curled up beside the comatose Robbie Lewis, and was soon asleep again.

He awoke a couple of hours later, dehydrated and stiff. He had no idea how Lewis was coping with this mattress on the floor, as it was uncomfortable some nights for him. Or mornings. Lewis was now on his back, almost in the middle, both arms flung out, quilt kicked off, snoring loudly. They had had a long day, and not being quite yourself was very exhausting, and having had a break had made it harder and more exhausting. At least, James found it so. He stumbled up and grabbed a glass of water before almost falling down the two flights of stairs to the lounge, grabbing cereal, milk, bowl and a spoon on the way, as he passed the kitchen.

Chaz was back, dressed in his ubiquitous Liverpool shirt. Although he was a local Oxfordian, he felt Oxford were a ‘crap’ team, an ‘embarrassment, and had followed Liverpool ever since he was small. He would bore you with stats and history if you let him, particularly if he was stoned, which was often. Normal, even, for most people in the house. Which was why SEROCU and UNIT had selected it as an optimum place to infiltrate among the users and small dealers of East Oxford, he supposed.

Kath and Dave were there, curled up on the sofa together, still in their pyjamas, as usual. Angie was there too, curled in a tiny ball on the beanbag on the floor, dressed in a tiny shift of a pink nightie, hugging her yellow and blue teddy bear she always carried. She was the one on the house who worried James the most. She was nervous, agoraphobic, mostly spending time in her room, scared of anyone new, particular men. If Robbie joined them he knew she would leave and go back to her room immediately. She had long, fine, unwashed, blonde hair and was so tiny, less that five foot, and so slight she could wear children’s clothes. Emaciated, even. She obviously had mental health issues, and was too ill to work, although she was being put under pressure by the Job Centre to work, despite medical evidence from her GP and psychiatrist. This situation was not helping her mental health issues at all. Fortunately, even if she made it out of the house to any of the interviews the Job Centre sent her on, she took her teddy with her and was thus so obviously unemployable before she opened her mouth. She self-mediated a lot too with cannabis, which James was sure made matters worse. Or at least, didn’t help.

In fact, the only people in the household missing were Spud, who was at work, and Robbie, who was still sleeping. That was good; as James could play the vulnerable card, get sympathy for his shock at finding a body and maybe some useful information or names.

He perched on the squashy, battered, leather armchair that didn’t match any of the rest of the furniture and started pouring out his cereal.

“Hi,” he said to the room in general.

Kath and Dave vaguely waved; they were already sharing a spliff. Angie lowered her head and mumbled hello. Chaz grinned,

“How you doing? What was it like then?” Then he turned to the room at large and added, “Jamie found a dead body last night, didn’t you?”

Everyone in the room stared at James, Angie gasping, Kath swearing, and Dave just opening and closing his mouth, like a goldfish.

“Well, the early hours of this morning, yeah. He was in his car, just staring ahead, nobody at home. He was covered in this bright yellow foamy stuff, not sick, and his eyeballs were yellow, too, bright yellow, like buttercups, not, you know, like someone with jaundice. My auntie got jaundiced, so I know the difference.”

“Is she who you saw dead before?” asked Chaz.

“Yeah. She was. But she was at peace.” And James wasn’t even lying; he had seen her in her coffin before her funeral. No one else in the house had been at peace, he had been twelve, and had sat by her, praying for her soul, since she had refused the last rites and he loved his cousin and wanted the best for her Mum. There were countless bodies in between his aunt and the body in the Polo, starting with the dead old lady he and his partner had found when they were probationers; she had been dead in her flat for nearing two weeks when they found her. Then there had been the two women in the flipped, smashed, Ford Fiesta; they had to be cut out. He had to hold a screaming baby while Tracey, his probationer partner, has tried to console the two small children, both of whom had cuts and broken bones. It had probably taken two minutes for the fire tender, and five for the ambulance, but it had felt an eternity to James and Tracey, first on the scene, with no more experienced officer with them.

Then there had been the first murder victim with Knox, nothing so complex or with a college connection like so many he had attended with Lewis, just a woman killed in a fit of drunken rage by her boyfriend; battered about the head and face with a frying pan. There was blood everywhere, blood and brains. Even though he’s seen worse at many a RTA in uniform, he’d vomited his lunch up in the front yard. Knox had laughed, but Hobson had reassured him it was normal, a RTA was an accident, but for someone to inflict that amount of harm on another, it was always hard, the first time.

James tried to recall those feelings of shock, horror and disgust, as these days he had become, not quite immune, but had found a calm place, most of the time.

“This was awful,” he went on. “He’d been skinning up.”

“Dave 2 had yellow bubbling puke, do you remember?” Dave 1 said to Chaz.

“Yeah.”

“And yellow eyeballs too.”

“What did he die of?”

“Um, they said it was an overdose. He was a smackhead. But then this copper came round, some posh black cop...” explained Chaz, looking at Dave, who nodded.

Ngoti, thought James.

“Yeah, he said it was murder, that some weirdo is cutting the heroin. He wanted to know where Dave 2 got it from,” Kath went on.

“Did you tell him?” asked James.

“Didn’t know mate,” Dave said.

“Would you? If you knew?” asked James, more forcefully than he intended.

Dave stared at him curiously, before exploding, “Oh yeah! I mean, we ain’t smackheads, and we flushed our grass when he came round. If someone is deliberately putting crap in the white to kill people ’course I’d tell ’em!”

“Yeah. Definitely. But we in’t got a bleeding clue,” Chaz added.

“Sorry,” James said, ducking his head slightly. “I’m not sure Robbie would tell the police anything, whatever the reason. Or let me either. Didn’t mean to offend you.”

“’S’okay. So, what are you cooking for tonight? We missed your cooking last night, didn’t we Kath?”

“Yeah. Deffo.”

“Don’t know. Got nothing left in and we spent so much yesterday...”

“No worries, we’ll sort the food. Come on Dave. If we leave now we can get to Gloucester Green Market as they pack up. We’ll get you loads of veg.” 

“I can get meat,” Angie said suddenly, very quietly. “Tariq called. He wants to visit.”

“No Angie,” Kath said gently, “You don’t want to get mixed up with him and his brothers again.”

“Tariq’s Dad owns the halal place on the corner. We can have lamb and chicken.”

“For what Angie, sweetheart?” Kath got up and came over to Angie on the beanbag and squatted down and hugged her. “You’re leaving all that behind, yeah?”

“Tariq is different,” she said even more quietly.

“Angie,” Kath took a deep breath, “ I know you want to help us all out, but we don’t want you to do anything that you don’t like. And nor does Sweetie,” Sweetie was the name of the yellow and blue teddy bear. Kath looked up at Dave, who glanced at Chaz, and they both stood up and left, both touching James on the arm and the shoulder as they passed him, indicating with a nod of a head and a discreet point that he should follow.

 

*

 

Mystified, James followed the two men to the kitchen. He sat down at the table and put down his cereal, meaning to eat more.

“Tea anyone?” asked Dave, putting on the kettle. “Toast?” he added, hunting down some breakfast. He found a couple of mouldy slices of white bread in his and Kath’s food cupboards. “Chaz...?”

“Sorry,” he replied, flopping into the easy chair in the corner by the fridge.” Don’t get me money ’til next week. Jamie?”

“We spend out getting to Newcastle. Sorry. And what was that all about?”

“What was what? Can I have some of your cereal Jamie? I’ve starved.”

“Help yourself. With Angie and Kath?”

“Kath has had some bad experiences with boyfriends. Asian boyfriends specially. She was at school with Tariq and went out with his brother when she was in Year 9. Bad things happened, then when she left care, even more bad things. She’s just a little kid inside. We all try to look out for her,” Dave explained.

“But we are men, so we scare her, yeah. So be easy around her, yeah. I know you think you’re okay, being gay and that, but you’re a big bloke Jamie, so gentle, yeah.”

“Try not to loom too much, for starters,” added Dave with a grin.

“Oi. For that I won’t let you have my cornflakes!”

“Sorry man. Teasing,” Dave said, sitting opposite James and reaching for the cereal.

“You okay now anyway?” asked Chaz.

James looked down and shrugged.

“Did Robbie see him too?”

“Yup. Didn’t want me to call the police.”

“But you did, yeah?”

“If I hadn’t, then some kid on the way to school might have found him. I didn’t leave a name or anything.”

“Bet Robbie wasn’t freaked out,” Dave said quietly.

Chaz shook his head. “Leave it mate. You know, come to think of it, that poor guy is the third person I’ve heard who died like that. You know Dave?”

“Oh. Yeah. Billy.”

“Who’s Billy?”

“Used to get my gear from him. Lives by Tescos. He had this boyfriend, well, I say boyfriend; this sad little lonely boy had this massive Daddy crush, always hanging round. Bill had to be a saint not to succumb...”

“So, Billy died then?” James asked.

“Na, his boyfriend did, he was only sixteen, poor kid.”

“I heard he was covered in yellow gunk too,” Chaz said.

“How come?”

“Billy. Saw him on the Cowley Road?”

“Is he back? I thought he cleared out after that poor kid...”

“He’s around.”

“Oh man, I’ve been scoring off the Alis, and I don’t trust them, wish I knew!”

“Who are the Alis?”

“Asian brothers. Saf and Tan. Don’t know their real names.”

“No one can say them, obviously.”

“Why?” James asked innocently.

“Can you speak Paki then?” Chaz asked, incredulously.

“No, I just think it’s a bit racist not to make the effort. But still, what’s wrong with them Dave?”

“Hey, why are you asking all this anyway?”

James shrugged. “Bored. Thought you and Kath were going to sort us out some veg so I can cook for everyone. I’ll make a massive vat of soup if you can get the food. We’ve got zero money.”

“Yeah, we’ll sort you, no probs, just as soon as Kath’s talked Angie out of phoning Tariq.”

“And what’s wrong with Tariq anyway?”

“Let’s just say she’s had real bad trouble with Asian men before, including his big brothers.”

“You can’t judge a person by his race! Or his brothers, for that matter. I asked what was wrong with him?”

“For Angie, being male, for starters. She just don’t know how to say no!” Chaz blurted out angrily.

“That’s a bit protective, I mean, I know she seems a bit away with the fairies, with her teddy and...” James stopped, thinking of Panda coming out of retirement after he had been raped. “Has she been raped?”

“Over and over. Poor girl,” Dave said, nodding, “Like I said, be gentle around her, you might be gay, but you’re a bloody man, and a towering great big git at that.”

James nodded, “Of course I will. Was it recent?”

“Oh man, poor girl, it started when she was in care...” Dave began.

 

*

 

“Robbie? Robbie, wake up.”

“Huh? Mumph!” Robbie pulled his pillow over his head. “Go away James!”

“Come on, it’s gone one in the afternoon. I’ve made you tea. And I’ve brought you your Nurofen. I’ve got news. Everyone’s out apart from Angie, so we can talk.”

“Fine.” Robbie sat up slowly, groaning at his backache from sleeping on a mattress on the floor. “Ta,” he said, as James handed him his tea. 

Groaning himself, James lowered his great height down to sit on the floor, curling up his long legs. “I’ve been up hours. I’m shattered.”

“Did you move the van?”

“Shit! I should have gone back! No. When I got there, there were SOCOs all over the place,”

“Laura will be pleased. It’s what she was wanting.”

“Well, this is a full UNIT/Thames Valley command operation now, isn’t it? I saw her so I turned round and came back, she’s not to know, is she?”

“I’m not sure. Would have been awkward if she saw you and hadn’t been briefed any road. So, quickly, what did you want to say?” Robbie said, every sip of tea waking him more.

“Firstly, I think I have names for Operation Kingfisher. Can I input them as soon as we’re secure? I might have got surnames or the name of their father’s shop by then?”

“James, we’re not involved in that, it’s child protection...”

“Who are gathering data and evidence with no fucking intervention or warnings, they’re not telling the social workers...”

“I think the social workers aren’t listening. You know how bloody hard it is to get true evidence to make it stick, you can work your arse of only to have CPS to chuck it in your face – and vulnerable, in care, in trouble kids, are not reliable witnesses, can be so easily discredited, can’t they? CPS won’t touch them...”

“So, they don’t matter? A child doesn’t get believed. Even an intelligent, articulate, educated fifteen year old...?”

Robbie stared at James, thinking; tell me you remember! James looked away and then back again, obviously having centred himself and buried whatever half memory had surfaced. He lowered his voice to a whisper, “Angie was in care. She was trafficked and pimped, from what I could gather from Dave. Kath was comforting her, she heard from an old boyfriend, she wants to see him, but everyone went absolutely crazy. Everyone is so protective of her.”

“Poor lass, I go in a room, she squeals and runs out. It hurts to see it, but if I soften my act just for her I won’t ring true, will I? Abused? In care? No wonder she is so scared, poor wee girl. Okay, let’s focus. Anything useful?”

“William ’Billy’ Parks,” James said distinctly, glaring at Robbie.

“What?” 

“He supplied Dave and he supplied the other Dave, the one who died here. His boyfriend also died. Both deaths covered in yellow foam with yellowed eyeballs.”

“Aye, we know that.”

“He’s a connection. We need to go back. I don’t think he’s dealing anymore. We need to find out why. I didn’t see or smell a whiff of Charlie about his place, only a bit of grass for personal use.”

“James, it’s not easy, you know...”

“But he was going to give us a big name, bigger than anything we’ve found. I’ve got the names of two Asian men who deal to Dave, but they’re probably just bigger sprat...”

Robbie sighed and put down his tea, looking away from James. “I know. I was a complete dick. I don’t know what to do...”

“Go and apologise. I’ve told everyone we’ve no money left! I know you’ve this hard man thing to maintain, but you also need to find a supply to deal, right? What else are you going to do, pimp me?”

Robbie pulled a pained face. “Stop it.”

“This Robbie...”

“Wouldn’t!” Robbie said firmly. “He’d kill anyone that looked at you. Or nearly.”

“Then. When he needed to score, he would say sorry and grovel.”

“You sure?”

James nodded. “Dead boyfriend, dead customer, might be clean himself, can get us a reasonable big supplier’s name – whatever it takes. Sir.”

“Alright. Tomorrow then. And no Sirs!”

 

*

 

They both went around the next day, banging hard on the door, Robbie yelling how he was sorry, James yelling they really needed his help. After five minutes or so of this, while all the time people getting in and out of their cars in Tescos car park trying hard not too but still, surreptitiously, staring at them, Billy opened the window and shouted at them,

“Fuck off you bastard! You nearly fucking killed me! Why should I help you?”

“Oh man, I’m sorry, I’m trying to say I’m sorry. I’m just a bit protective of me James, that’s all!”

“I don’t care.”

“Yeah, well maybe you should help us out. You know who I used to work for!”

“And now you’re banging on my door yelling sorry. The Roschenkovs are history, and so are you, obviously!” 

With that, Billy slammed the window shut and turned up his music really loud, shaking the houses of both his next-door neighbours. Loud Moody Blues blared out as James and Robbie turned to walk back to their house, Robbie looking dejected but was actually feeling angry with himself. James was right, he had let his personal feelings get in the way, and so far, Parks was the best lead they had.

James, meanwhile, began to make plans; it had not escaped him the way Parks had looked at him as he told Robbie he was history.

 

*

 

At the end of that week Hooper had arranged for James to ‘sign on’, that was, attend an initial interview at the Job Centre Plus at Gloucester Green in the city centre to set up a fake claim for Job Seeker’s Allowance or Employment Support Allowance. The lack of money was being to tell among the housemates. Hooper had arranged it prior to their contact that Monday. Robbie had refused his, arguing the whole cover was he had left Newcastle on the run, and surely the police could trace him easily enough through a benefits claim. They had discussed at some length whether Matthews and Isaacs would risk James signing on. In the end they decided between the three of them that a gangster of Robbie’s age in Newcastle would most likely be in the closet and James would probably be unknown to the police, particularly is Matthews had been under Drugs and Vice’s radar until Oxford and Southampton’s joint collar of the Roschenkovs.

That morning James had put on his only jeans and a white shirt and his cheap copy red converses, the smartest clothes his undercover self had, shaved, and left early to catch the No 5 bus to the city centre. He had got used to slopping about in baggy cut offs, sloppy tees and flip-flops and he felt so hot and sticky on the crowded bus. He had considered walking, but it was over three miles, and the heat was already climbing to above twenty-five Celsius at nine thirty in the morning. He had assumed the buses wouldn’t be so crowded after the rush hour, but forgot the number of language school students that stayed in East Oxford and Cowley – the bus was positively pulsating with the noisy, excited chatter of too many young people, teenagers and even older children, all talking at the top of their voices in at least seven or eight languages. Some of the older ones were talking to each other in stuttering English. Behind him a Spanish boy of about fifteen was attempting to chat up a French girl no older than fourteen in haltering but quite sweet English. The old English Bangladeshi guy sitting beside James kept huffing and wheezing with the heat and James was just beginning to wonder if the poor old thing was about to have a heart attack when he got off at the bottom of the Cowley Road to go to the Mosque. He was instantly replaced with a Pakistani woman in a black Chador, hijab and niquab with two toddlers. She smelt of spices and boiled cabbage and poverty and the children let up an insistently thin wail of protest at the hot, crowded bus. James knew how they felt, but wished they weren’t so close to his ear.

The woman struggled against their wriggling, squirming, hit little protesting bodies; they wanted to be down and moving about. She had had to fold the double buggy down and stow it on the language rack; a wheelchair and two more buggies were already on board. As she fought to control the boys and keep them still, sighing as she did so, she shifted the black sleeves of her chador or bukha, revealing pink rayon, gold bangles, and thin brown wrists. James suddenly realised it was Ramadan. And bloody hot and long days they were too.

“Can I help?” he asked, offering to take one of the wriggling little boys.

“Thank you,” she said happily, and dumped the most active on his lap. “God bless you.”

“No problem.” He instantly settled the child and started pointing at things out of the window. The child, and his brother, stopped screaming and responded to him in a mix of English and Punjabi, but enough of it was English to get the gist.

They seemed to be stuck in traffic on the Magdalen Bridge, sitting on the bus, which had its aircon either broken or not switched on, for a long while. James began to wonder if the traffic lights on the High were broken. When they finally moved he realised that the problem was further up, some TV detective show was filming on The High and crew were controlling the traffic. Eventually his bus, along with two more, were let through, stopping at the top of the High, past the filming going on in St Edmunds Hall and Merton Street.

He carried the children off and waited while the young mum wrestled with the buggy. “Thanks,” she repeated.

“It’s fine,” he replied, smiling at her, careful to not look into her eyes. Poor kid, he thought, barely out of her teens. No doubt she had been up at before three that morning and unlike her husband, was going to have to cook while fasting. He wondered if the full covering was her idea or some man’s. And was it submission to God like a nun’s habit or some political act?

No, she had said God and had thanked him. It was either spiritual or cultural. The political was more a convert thing. She must be so hot, though, he thought, as would be the Sisters of St Mary and St James’... he wondered if Sister Donna Marie Rose had managed to uncover anything, and if so, would she be put in contact with Hooper? He should have left her a message of who to contact in his absences. Damn! He hadn’t thought! This undercover had happened so fucking quickly!

It was a long walk through the crowds of tourists and language school students from the High to George Street. He was so hot by the time he got there. He stopped to buy a bottle of water in a newsagents. It was rip off the tourist prices, something Hathaway would not notice, but as Isaacs, it stung. He was surprised how he was slipping into his persona. Who helped the woman, he wondered?

The step of the large building by the coach station was overflowing with people in cheap clothes smoking roll-ups and looking miserable. He went inside to the large, open plan foyer and had to take a number from a ticket machine. All the seats were taken, but so feeling so hot and hungry, he sat on the floor. He shouldn’t have taken his first Seroxat of the day on a completely empty stomach, he realised. As security guard soon came up to him and told him to stand, then looked at his pale face and asked if he was alright.

James nodded and stood and went to lean on a pillar, scowling at the guard.

His number was called. He gave his name. The woman looked at the screen and let out a stifled squeal. James peeped around her monitor.

‘Isaacs, J. Fake claim. DS Hathaway, Oxford CID, undercover operation. Refer to EO for instructions. Merely say he is here.’

“Take a seat Mr Isaacs,” she said, trying to swallow her overawed smile.

He went back to his pillar, but it had been taken by a surely West Indian girl, leaning back on it while blowing pink bubbles with her gum. She glared at James as he sighed and sat on the floor again.

“Mr Isaacs,” a familiar voice said. Now James had to swallow a grin, he was annoyed with himself. He looked up at the tall, dark, form in front of him. He looked tall from this angle, although actually, wasn’t he shorter than James, if only by half an inch?

“Yes? Is there a problem?” James scrambled to his feet.

“Yes. A problem with you paperwork from Newcastle. We need to interview you upstairs. Follow me.”

James followed Ngoti, who, of course, managed to look neat and unflappable in this heat in a crisp white Egyptian cotton shirt and pale chinos.

 

*

 

Meanwhile, Lewis had got up soon after James had left and pretended not to know where his boyfriend was. Kath and Dave were, as ever, in the lounge, curled up together on the sofa, watching rubbish daytime TV and smoking and drinking tea. It was currently only nicotine the room smelt off.

“He’s gone to sign on. Thought you would know, man.”

“Oh yeah. That was today? Damn! Got to sort out a bloody phone for the lad! As soon as I get me hands on some readies. I’ll go pick him up,” and then he pretended to have no idea of where to go and spend ages faking confusion as Kath tried to describe the route by car through the diversions and one way systems that took all traffic from the city centre.

 

*

 

The manager had given up her office for the two police officers. Ngoti took one look at James’ pale features and sheen of sweat across his forehead and requested tea and something to eat. The manager herself provided both tea and some digestives, along with a banana. James worried he had looked as if he might faint. He felt a little swimmy; it must say with food for a reason, he supposed.

Once they were both sat comfortably either side of the large desk, James dunking biscuits in his tea, Ngoti began without preamble,

“Okay Sir, do you want ESA or JSA?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Well, on JSA you will be required to attend work focused interviews weekly, and go on any course or job interview they might send you on. If you do nothing and have no contact here again it will look suspicious.”

“Okay. I’m barking. I’m on antidepressants. Put me on sick benefits.”

“That would be ESA, work-focused group of supported?”

“And?”

“Work focused means courses and interviews, but less suspicious, supported means money and medical evidence.”

James thought about poor Angie, screaming and slashing at her thin wrists with the kitchen knife until Kath had calmed her down because she had been told she was capable of work by the ATOS medical. He thought of Kath and Dave, making up job interviews and applications by going through the local paper and websites once a week to fill in forms before they signed on. And Chaz, who actually did ask for work, constantly ringing up for labouring and driving jobs and never being given a single interview because he had been in prison for twenty days – for non payment of child maintenance. Now he was unemployable with too low an income to pay any maintenance. This is a complete minefield, he thought.

“Won’t the jury still be out? And won’t I have to have a medical?”

“Depends if you have a record that can be transferred from Newcastle.”

“I think I’m a kept bitch,” James smiled, watching a little flinch in the side of Ngoti’s cheek, the only sign of his strong disapproval. It was nice to be the one not hiding naive, religion-inspired, shock for once, he thought. Or was it Isaacs who was cruel?

“Let’s wait for a ‘medical’, it can be your next contact with Hooper, as needs be. There will be no ‘money’ until then. So you had better come up with an alternative.”

“Then get authority for Robbie to ‘deal’, alright?” James said sniffily.

“I will brief Hooper. Is there anything else I can take back, while I’m here?”

 

*

 

While James was in his interview Lewis parked up the van in a small car park opposite, double parking while he waited for a space, and took out the UNIT secure laptop and logged in,

UNIT Wolf 6, DI R Lewis: data input: request to TVP uniform via CSI Innocent:  
James ‘signed on’. Need him pulled in by uniform in connection to me, Matthews re Newcastle at some point over next week or so if poss. Add to hard man persona and take away suspicion on James. Will let you know would be optimum and needed.  
Request 2: VI. Need you to sort out drugs to deal Kate. Cannot maintain fiction of no money for much longer without drastic action, like fake mugging, robbery, something. I’m a criminal with fuck all, am I just going to sit in holy, polite poverty starving?


	18. Week 3, pimps, prostitutes and drugs!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little warning for FAKED domestic violence of Lewis and Hathaway's undercover personas.

The weekend dragged, feeling incredibly long and boring. Robbie and James sniped at each other, not just for effect; but as themselves, really annoyed and short tempered with each other. They were both hungry. The cornflakes ran out, then the teabags, which sent Robbie over the edge more than no beer, which had been gone for days. Soup made from scraps of vegetables was all very well, but not exactly filling. The house was empty all but Spud, who slept and shared his chips and bread, and Angie, who stayed in her room. She could be heard whimpering and crying. Chaz had gone to visit his children and Kath and Dave had gone to a festival.

“Is there a Gurdwara in Oxford?” James said, after some time thinking about how near his own flat was, how full the freezer and the store cupboard was full of tins, and as far out of reach as any food shopping, with keys, passport, credit and debit cards, all sitting in that same locked box in Innocent’s office as their warrant cards. “I’ve not heard of one, but if there is... I could murder a curry, even a vegetarian one...”

“Eh? What? Anyway, I need protein man!”

“Daal is protein. And mattar paneer. Peas and cheese and lentils and rice and gobi aloo...”

“James, you’re hallucinating man. What the fuck is a gundwanda?”

“Gurdwara. It’s a Sikh temple. They always cook and feed everyone and anyone, Sikh or not, it’s part of their worship, to serve and feed others...”

“Well, unless there is one in someone’s house, I’ve not heard of one. It’s how the mosques started.”

“Mosque. It’s Ramadan. Let’s go to evening prayers and eat with the Muslims, there’ll be food for all the worshippers opening their fast!

“No one’s in,” Robbie whispered, coming up to James on the sofa and hugging him. “Let’s just go buy a kebab and then an Indian.”

“With what? Innocent took my wallet and all my ID, didn’t she yours?”

Robbie sighed, “Aye. But I have some emergency funds stuffed in the side pocket of the laptop case.”

James lips twitched slightly into a smile before he frowned again. “No good. What if someone sees us that comes to this house as a friend or to score? Or Spud wakes up or Angie comes out of her room?”

Robbie sighed. “True. We are going to have to sort out the money. As Ngoti told you, you’ll be waiting, in reality, at least another month, for your money to come through. We could nick something and sell it, shoplift in Tescos or Sainsbury’s. What would I do, eh, if I were really this hardened criminal?”

“You probably wouldn’t do something so low and mundane as mug someone, I think, certainly not steal some food from a supermarket. Probably, in the absence of anything in the line of dealing or enforcing, you’d pimp me.”

“James! I am...”

“I’m not really going to sleep with anyone,” James hissed, but if I get dolled up and come back with money,,,” he shrugged.

“After I’ve set myself up as so possessive. And we are going to have to argue about this. I’m seriously going to have to force you, to establish my and your reputations here.”

“In which case, you are going to have to hit me.”

“I am not going to...” Robbie broke off abruptly. They had been talking in very low voices, and the TV was on, so he had to hope Spud didn’t hear anything. “Hey Spud man, you couldn’t lend us a twenty mate? Could you?”

“What were you whispering about?”

“Food mostly,” James said.

“Lad got it in his head to go to the Mosque and beg food there, since my poor boy’s starving.”

Both men stared at Spud, hopefully looking as if they had nothing to hide but hunger and desperation. He didn’t look like he had heard anything suspicious. In fact, he looked angry, but not at them, James realised as he said,

“When will they sort out your claim then?”

“Ages, they don’t know if I should be on sick or not, they’ve lost all my Newcastle notes.”

“What about a hardship loan?”

“They don’t do them anymore, do they? Keep up man!” Robbie snapped.

“I know you got paid Friday,” James said beseechingly, making his eyes almost tear up. Robbie was amazed. “I will pay you back. I’ll even clean your room. Whatever.”

“My room and the stinking bathroom. Kath redid her hair, it’s covering in purple splotches and stinks of ammonia.”

“Tell me about it,” Robbie muttered.

James nodded. “I cook for everyone again all next week, promise.”

Spud reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, peeling out a twenty-pound note. “As soon as you get your benefit, okay? And there’s some sausages and eggs in the fridge of mine, need eating up. And you can have my bread and there’s a tin of beans at the back that’s Kath and Dave’s. They won’t miss it, too stoned to remember, especially when they get back from Wales.”

“Thanks man,” Robbie said, pocketing the banknote.

“Yes. Indeed,” James nodded sincerely, before getting up and heading for the kitchen.

“Enjoy,” smiled Spud, already heading for the front door. “See ya.”

 

*

 

Two nights later Kath and Dave returned, bringing a houseful of crusties, hippies and Goths, over-spilling into the garden with tents and into the street with vans. Food was shared, as were drinks, cigarettes, and grass. James cooked vats of stew, soup, rice, and curry, and baked fresh bread while Robbie got names of dealers in Swindon, Sussex and Somerset. The week ended with a party, a staged row, and then a raid.

Halfway through the party Robbie pulled away from a woman after she had put her hand on his prick and grabbed James and kissed him, fondling his backside and groin,

“Upstairs bonny lad. Now.”

James looked at the pink haired hippie in the long skirts and tie-dyed tee shirt, who was sixty if a day, glare rather angry at him. He narrowed his eyes at her and kissed his teeth. Then giggled and kissed Robbie again.

“You’ve been flirting with her all week,” James said once they were in the room, “what did you expect?”

“Aye. Well, got lots of names for Drugs, some might even be of use to us, need Hooper to chase the supply chain there.”

“True, and now I’ve rescued you, what?”

“That row about me pimping you, it has to happen tonight, once the music drops a bit. Maximum witnesses like.”

James took a deep breath. “Yeah. Why not? And don’t forget – hit me for real. I trust you.”

Robbie swallowed. And nodded.

“In the meantime, let’s get out tops off and get under the quilt.”

Robbie stared, “What man?”

“In case anyone comes in. You are supposed to be shagging my brains out right now.”

Robbie nodded again, the sighed deeply. “Aye.”

 

*

 

About an hour later the music began to quieten down and mellow out to Dylan and Donovan. Cars and vans roared away, doors banged and goodbyes were yelled. Robbie and James estimated that about a quarter to a half of the guests had left and those still in the house were probably sitting around the living room sharing a joint and talking meaningful nothings and dreaming big dreams that would never come to fruition. The looked at each other and nodded. James climbed out of bed and firstly, took of his jeans and socks. Robbie raised his eyebrows quizzically into his receding hairline but did not comment.

“Ready?” James mouthed. Robbie nodded again. James counted down on his fingers silently, lowering one long finger at a time, three, two, one...

“No!” he yelled at the top of his voice. “No I fucking won’t! You can’t make me!”

“You’ll do as you’re bloody told boy! I’ve tried and fucking tried to establish myself down here but no one is going to trust me! You want us to starve or what?”

“NO! Yeah! If I have to...”

“Don’t talk bollocks. You know and I know you’ve fucking chosen to do it rather than starve. Don’t forget where I found you, right in the bloody gutter selling your arse! If we go up to London, to the West End, we can make enough for a while and...”

“NO!!!” James shouted and smashed one of the revolting orange armchairs into the wall, and pointed at Robbie, who mouthed ‘that’s me?’ and, following James slight nod, yelled at the top of his voice, his Geordie accent thickening even more,

“You fucking jumped up bitch, you fucking whore,” he pushed James back into his wall, “you do as I fucking tell you!” He raised his fist, and looked, uncertain, feeling in no way as violent as he was sounding, more fear than anything coursing through his veins. James nodded barely perceptively.

Robbie hit him. Punched his square on the face, on the cheek, one right-handed rabbit punch, following it with a left handed uppercut.

James’ yells of pain were genuine. He looked at Robbie, and saw tears in his eyes, and wanted to comfort him, but he had to keep this act up. If he told the people downstairs Robbie had been a dealer and all he wanted was a supplier and then he’d stop with this violence, maybe, just maybe, they might get a name for Oxford rather than all over the south and west.

“You bastard! You can’t make me!” James screamed, making his voice raise an octave, as he knew it genuinely did in times of great emotional stress, in the few rare moments when he did let his feelings out rather than bottle them. He grabbed his Converses, tee shirt and jeans of the floor and left the room, looking back at Robbie with sorrowful eyes. Robbie was dashing away an unshed tear from his eye. His own knuckles were bruised too.

“Besides,” he yelled at the door, once he opened it, “You’ve just knocked out my fucking rental value now, you shit!” He slammed the door behind him so hard the whole attic floor and the one below shook.

Once he had gone Robbie sank into the other battered armchair and put his head in his hands. Undercover, he repeated to himself, not me, not my James, my sergeant, and my sergeant said we had to do it, undercover... He looked at his hands. They were shaking. This better get them some information as well as an excuse to have some spending money.

 

*

 

James met Spud coming up the stairs as he was going down them, still in his boxers, arms full of his clothes and shoes.

“Hey Jamie. You okay? What me to sort out... what the fuck has that bastard done to your face!?”

“It’s nothing. It’s my fault, I was...” What? Wondered James? What was this James doing to take the blame? Turning into his mother? My fault James, you know we shouldn’t speak to your Dad what he’s been drinking.

“Hey. Sit down. Want me to have a word with him?”

“Leave him to calm down Spud. He’s just stressed. He’s used to us having a lot of money. We had such a lovely place in Newcastle, everything... and it all...” James broke up, turning his head. He never realised until this undercover just quite how good an actor he was. He had acted a bit at school and Cambridge, but gave it all up in the first year, along with the rowing. They seemed frivolous for the future priest he had believed he was to be. Now he marvelled at the catch in this throat as he imagined the other James and Robbie’s illegally gotten gains...

“What exactly are you running from?”

James looked up, and pulled on his tee shirt. “Russian mafia. The police. Take your pick.”

“Shit. Fucking hell. Shit.”

James shrugged. “He kept me out of it all really. But I... doesn’t matter. We need money. I was being stupid.”

“Not like that, you...” Spud fades off, as if he was aware of something. James, too, felt his skin prickle. Both men turned around to look behind them at the same time to see Angie standing above them, dressed in a lilac short nightie and a sloppy dark purple jumper over the top, hugging her ubiquitous yellow and blue bear.

“Come,” she said to James, holding out her hand. “Come James. I’ll clean you up.”

James gingerly touched his cheek and looked at his fingertips, which came away wet. Robbie had split his skin.

James and Spud looked at each other. Spud nodded. “Go on, it’s still manic downstairs, I ought to make sure it doesn’t get trashed too much.” He sighed and stood up, touching James on the shoulder. “Put your jeans on first, yeah. And take care of her too.”

James wriggled into his jeans on the stairs, then pulled on his trainers over his bare feet and stood to follow Angie.

Angie’s room was the smaller box room on the middle floor, the small square window over-looked the garden, currently containing two tents and a broken down orange VW campervan. The sloped roof of the extension to the house containing the extra bathroom sloped away from her window two. She had bricked up the top to level it off and two window boxes sat there. James went to the window immediately to look, expecting, perhaps, cannabis plants, but no, there were tomatoes, sweet peppers, and one sick-looking courgette flower.

“This is where the vegetables you gave me for soup came from,” he said, amazed.

Angie shrugged and blushed. “I like growing things. I’ll get a bowl of water.” She left him, so James looked around. No ashtrays or any cigarettes or drug-taking paraphernalia at all. She toked with everyone in the living room, but perhaps the other housemates were leading her astray. How old was she anyway? Eighteen? Nineteen, at the very most? 

More teddy bears and other soft toys, well-loved and battered ones, sat on a shelf, the shelf above had a few children’s classics and popular girls fiction, Mallory Towers and St Clair’s by Enid Blyton, the Chalet School books – what did a girl in a care home make of mid twentieth century upper class girls at boarding school? There was also Tracy Beaker, a few more Jacqueline Wilson, and whole set of over twenty books of something called Ali’s World, about a girl with a large hippie family living in north London surviving without just a Dad, Mum missing, from the blurb on the back. No adult fiction at all. All the books smelt musty. Charity shops? Most probably, a long with the rescued toys, no doubt. Her hanging rail was full of brightly coloured mini dresses and knitted jumpers and cardigans. Dolly shoes and flip-flops underneath, along with some flower-patterned wellies. A small transistor radio sat by her bed, along with a pink alarm clock. No TV. No laptop. A rag rug on the floor and two scatter cushions and two pillows on the single bed covered with a yellow sunflower bright counterpane. A small wicker basket with nail polish and lip-gloss. She owned so little it hurt. There were no photos or pictures, no family mementos, not even a picture of school or care home friends.

He sat on the bed; there were no chairs. He noticed a strip of tablets he recognised. Seroxat. Snap!

Angie came back in carrying a small bowl of warm water, a flannel and a towel, the teddy bear, Sweetie, balanced precariously on her shoulders, as if she were giving her a piggyback.

She put down the bowl and sat down next to him.

“Does it hurt?”

“A bit.”

“Does he hit a lot?”

“Not often.”

“My mum and dad used to hit each other. And shout. I don’t remember much. Then they took me away and they went to prison. And now they’re both dead.”

“I’m sorry. How old were you?”

“Seven. I don’t remember much.” She repeated 

“Did they hit you?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t remember. My social worker said they did, but they never found any evidence.” Angie shrugged. “Do you love him?”

“Robbie? With all my heart!” James said with feeling, wondering if Isaacs did love Matthews the way he loved Lewis.

“Good. That’s okay then,” Angie said, dipping the flannel in the water. “This might sting but you don’t want an infection.”

No it isn’t! James cried out in his head. No it isn’t okay at ALL to let a partner hit you. Never! It’s taken me a long time to learn that and I want to tell you so much, but this James doesn’t understand, does he? It’s never okay, never okay, never okay... Oh God, how is Robbie feeling? This was my idea. Is he okay? He didn’t want to do this. I insisted. And now it hurts, it hurts like fucking hell...

“Better,” said Angie. “I’ll ask Tariq’s brothers for Robbie.”

“No. Don’t,” James said instinctively, remembering all Chaz, Kath and Dave had told him about what she had been through.

“They know the Russians. And other Asians. They deal all sorts, not just grass and skunk. Robbie needs to start-up. Dave 2 used to deal Charlie and White. I’m sure it was through some Asian man.”

“I don’t want you to talk to them Angie. I don’t want you to get hurt. You’ve been kind to me. Please don’t. Can you give me their names? Robbie could see them.”

“Um... would he hurt them?”

“Do you want him to?”

Angie shrugged, then stood up and picked up the bowl and went to take it away. James jumped up to open the door.

“I hate parties,” she said. “Too noisy.”

“Me too,” James nodded. “But I think I will go downstairs. I’m hungry and hopefully there’s still some food left. Thank you again.”

“Adeel and Waheed are Tariq’s brothers. Tariq is nice, I promise. His Dad is nice too. Fawad. He would have given me some meat if you had all let me. I think he had kicked out those no good brothers. They drive taxis and do all sorts of bad things. I don’t know where they live. I would be alright but everyone won’t let me go on my own, and if I don’t go on my own, Fawad won’t give me things for nothing, will he?”

“Do you know their surname Angie? We could find them in the phonebook or on the Internet of something,” like the PNC James didn’t add. These are names for Kingfisher at least, although it might be worth Robbie using them to network dealers and suppliers.

“Malik, I think. Bit like milk.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police Angie?”

“My social worker told them I made up stories for attention, and my care workers just locked me up and told me to stop making up lies. Why would the police believe me if I went again? The best thing about my eighteenth birthday was no more bloody social workers. I found this house on my own and they took benefits and coz there was another girl I felt sort of safe. You and Robbie make it even safer.”

“Because we’re gay?”

Angie grinned. “Yeah. I can sit here in a short skirt and you ain’t never going to look at me, are you?”

“Nope, not me,” but James didn’t add that Robbie was bisexual and definitely a bit of a leg man when it came to looking. “Thanks, you know, for sorting out my face.”

“You’re going to have a dreadful black eye on the other side. Get some ice as well as food.”

“Will do,” James took the bowl, giving her the thumbs up sign, and left her to go downstairs.

 

*

 

Robbie came down an hour after James, looking shamefaced and like he might have been trying not to cry, James thought sadly the unshed tears burning in Robbie’s eyes were all too genuine.

“Spud said he’ll try to get Dave to give me some names to try to score off,” Robbie said, as James climbed onto his lap and said that of course he forgave him. “Spud also told me the pigs have been round twice, coz of the noise, like.” It was now gone two in the morning on a weeknight. James was sure the neighbours weren’t happy at all. Especially since this was the third night of partying, crowds, and extra guests in a row.

As Robbie stage-whispered into James’ ear that they needed money more than ever now, if he was to score to deal, wanting to be overheard again to explain a hopeful sudden influx of money he would demand from Innocent and/or Kate, there was another loud banging on the door. James had heard them twice before and now knew it had been what he had thought – Uniform!

He heard Spud get up and turn down the stereo and yell at people, as Dave ran to flush his stash and one of the people who had followed Kath and Dave back from the festival got up and opened the door, grinning in an imbecilic way at the four constables on the doorstep.

“Shit shit shit!” Robbie yelled, leaping up, as, uninvited, two officers stepped into the hall, asking for the names of the tenants and explaining the level of noise and the fact neighbours had work and their children had school, in a few hours. People were crowding in on the hall, all apologising and getting quite excited about it, as James grabbed Robbie’s hand and pulled him up the stairs and knocked on Angie’s door.

She opened the door a crack and smiled when she saw it was James.

“It’s the police. Robbie can’t be here,” he said hurriedly.

Angie nodded, and they came in, hearing the loo flush for the third time and Dave swear as they did so. James pointed to the window and Robbie looked at James as if he were quite mad.

“You’re joking, man.”

“Climb over the bathroom roof, onto the bike shed and over the wall and you’ll come out in the back alley and out into Henley Street. Go wait in the van. Go!”

They could hear all four uniform now inside, one of which was on the landing. For effect, Robbie gave James an anguished kiss and climbed out of the window, stepping carefully over the plants.

“I’m not going back inside,” he muttered as he did so.

As soon as Angie had shut the window, a policewoman knocked on Angie’s door. James grabbed a book of the shelf, one of the Enid Blytons, and sat on the rag rug. Angie opened the door.

“Can I come in Miss. We’ve had lots of complaints this evening so we’re checking everyone is alright in this house.”

“Yeah, sure,” Angie stepped back and the young constable came in. it was Julie Bennet, a friend of Robbie’s. Her eyes widened slightly. Her partner, Tracey, was on the landing, and sensing something in Julie, came up to stand behind her. She bit her lip to stop a grin. James hoped they didn’t seem too intimidating to Angie. He grinned at Angie reassuringly,

“We don’t like the noise much either, do we Angie? I was reading to her,” he waved the book.

“Yes,” Angie said, picking up Sweetie her bear and climbing back under her bed covers.

“Well, hopefully, we should have persuaded your housemates to calm down now and you can get to sleep. Who are you both?” Tracey asked, as Julie was obviously still working on appearing normal.

“I’m Angie Jones, and this is James. He lives in the attic.”

Tracey nodded over Julie’s shoulder, “Okay. Sorry to disturb you Miss. Sir,” she nodded to James, trying not to grin.

“Thank you,” James mouthed to Angie as Julie shut the door, winking at James. Fortunately Angie didn’t notice.

 

* 

A couple of days later, after the party and the police visit, after threats and unpleasantness from Spud, Chaz, Kath and Dave, a house meeting where, for James’ sake, Robbie was given another chance, and Dave and Chaz gave Robbie all the names of dealers and suppliers that they thought might touch smack, Robbie left, supposedly to try to find any kind of cash in hand work and to speak to these men whose names he had been given. In reality, he drove out to Port Meadow, took some of the emergency money and bought himself a sandwich and a cup of tea, and sat in the back of his van with the secure laptop. He hoped he hadn’t blown the tenancy as he was beginning to really bed in, but since Kath and Dave were also on a warning for their loud parties and inviting back what had seemed half the festival, and they had been there years, from the notes, he assumed it was all hot air for Spud to feel as if he were responsible and in control. He turned his attention back to the immediate problem of a fictionalised income, they couldn’t continue to live off the kindness of the others of four weeks until Ngoti set up James’ fictionalised claim for Employment Support Allowance.

 

message: to Kate Stewart CC G1. From Robbie Lewis TVW6  
Actions requested:  
1/ we have run out of funds – request you liase with TVP, re set up emergency contact with Hooper, to give us sufficient funds. Set up undercover am pimping James, need at least couple of ton. Will claim to go to London for time.  
2/ have 2 possible names of Asian big time dealers, but will pursue before give you or TVP contact names – still big sprat, hoping to take us up the chain to pikes or even sharks. James chasing more names now. Repeat again, TVP must do any raid after we have evidence of possession with intend to supply and/or production of unlicensed drugs, at least.  
3/ have 2 names for Kingfisher. Liase with Innocent. Do we pass them on? Living in house with ex care girl who was pimped, trafficked and prostituted. Poor wee thing, breaks your heart.  
send...  
encrypting...  
sent.

 

receiving...  
de-encrypting...  
received.  
message to Robbie Lewis TVW6. From Kate Stewart CC G1.  
1/ Sunday. High Wycombe Asda cafe, off M40, 11am. You’ll have to spend night away from undercover house. In lack of funds, suggest hole up in UNIT safe house, come straight to Tower Friday night. Have a break. Will arrange keys and directions.  
2/ Good luck. Please don’t hang onto names as soon as you are fairly certain. Even if they are not the supplies of experimental viral-chemical, I’m sure one less supplier out of heroin chain is no loss. As long it does not compromise my wolves  
3/ give names to Hooper when you see him. Yes, the poor girl. Horrific. Outside UNIT purview, but nasty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued apologies for any typos :(


	19. Week 4: drugs, drink, and scars part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small little warning for explicit, detailed, drug taking!

When James went around on his own to William Parks on Union Street, behind Cowley Tescos, he still was very bruised, his cheek had a split that was red, angry, and sore, and surrounded by a livid purple bruise, while on the other side of his face there was a painful black eye. People stared at him suspiciously and gave him such a wide berth he had felt so self-conscious that he went into a charity shop on his way and bought some battered Raybans copies for a quid, his last pound he had meant to buy bread with at Tescos on his way back.

He had to knock for ages before Billy looked out of the window, straggling hair pulled back into a short ponytail, an almost clean purple shirt over the string vest.

“Yeah? Oh, it’s you? Where’s that aggressive bloody bear you hang around with?”

“Don’t know. He went out in the van. Can I come in? Please? We need to talk. I’m so sorry he was such an arse to you. Please.” James took of the sunglasses and looked straight up at Parks.

“Fuck! He did that?”

James nodded. “Please. Can we talk?”

“Hold on.”

It took a few moments, but Billy soon opened the door, wearing black jeans under the purple shirt, and purple socks. He looked far cleaner and smarter than the last two times James had seen him.

“You look good,” James said as he followed the older man up the stairs. Parks shrugged.

“Had a job interview. First in years. Well, for a proper job. Been cleaning, driving, delivery, warehouse, all sorts, but once upon a time I was a music teacher. County music, maternity cover.” He shrugged again. “Won’t get it, but you know... sit down boy.”

The battered chairs and awful sofa were now all covered with clean blue sheets, being used as throws, and a fourth was pinned up at the window as a curtain. The table was no longer overflowing with mouldy plates, takeaway trays, and ashtrays, but rather overflowing with sheet music, books, a notebook, and some screwed-up attempts at what looked like a CV. James sat on the chair close to the window and curled up his legs, hugging them.

“Well?” Billy said, sitting down on the sofa and starting to roll himself a cigarette. James looked hungrily at it. Billy noticed and once he’d lit it he passed it to James and started to build himself another.

“We have no money. Robbie has always dealt, it’s what he wants, we need that contact. Please.”

“Did he hit you to make you come here? Make me feel sorry for you and that?”

James shook his head and looked away, biting his thumbnail. “He wants to... he wants me to... that is... I mean, he doesn’t like to share, like you saw, but... he’s desperate. I used to. When I was young. But...”

“What the hell are you on about boy? Sorry about, you know, thinking I could have you. My head was in a really bad place, I was a mess. My... well, he wasn’t really a boyfriend, just a cute silly chicken who thought he was in love with me. I... well, I took him to bed and he wanted to be like me, do what I did and all that hero worship shit. And he died. He fucking died! All he did, he did to please me, to be like me... I’m mean, look at me, I’m nothing...”

James picked up a crumbled piece of music and saw the notations were handwritten; he hummed it out.

“You read music?”

“Yeah. I must do, mustn’t I? Did you write this?”

“Long time ago man. It’s derivative drivel, but you’re probably too young to see that.”

“Shades of Barclay James Harvest, and here’s a phrase like Procul Harem, and bits of Mozart, maybe – but all the best is inspired from something, isn’t it? Harry Potter is like a million brilliant children’s books from a hundred genres all mixed up with Greek mythology and clever use of science fiction and fantasy from decades mixed up even more and what comes out...”

“Is something unique and brilliant? Thanks sweetheart, but that’s no multi-million pound bestseller. So, I was saying sorry for trying it on and you were saying sorry for your shitty butch and then you started rambling? Want some tea? Or a beer maybe?”

James tried to make himself look desperate, “Got any white?”

“Oh man, sorry, I’m strictly blow and beer these days. I don’t know, maybe it was the shock of Nahil dying like that in front of me, poor kid, but when I tried it next, out of habit, you know, not coz I needed it all of a sudden, I was so sick, I thought I was going to die too. But nothing, and so I didn’t bother, and...” Billy shrugged. “Here I am. I only smoke a bit of blow, now, no smack, no coke, not even spirits. It’s like I’ve got my head back and forty years have gone by. Man... Look baby, why are you here? Make your old man jealous, payback for walloping you, eh?”

James shook his head. “He wants to go to London and he wants to pimp me out. He says only a few days, so we get some money...”

Billy stood up. “I’ll make tea. Does your face hurt?”

James nodded.

“He said you had a bit of a chicken shit habit.” Billy said after he had put on the kettle. He got onto the floor on his knees, pushing the coffee table to the sofa and then, after rolling up the rug, he prized open a floor board and pulled out a paper bag and fished inside and pulled out a small bag of powder. He pushed everything back, sat back down, took out his cigarette papers and began building a spliff with three, tobacco, then weed, then a sprinkling of the white powder. He tore an edge off a taxi company business card, rolled it quickly into a roach, put the spliff into his mouth and lit it, coughing as he did so. After a couple of tokes he retched. “Told you babe,” he said, handing it to James. “I’ll make us some tea.”

Fuck! James thought. What the fuck do I do? I can’t compromise this. I had thought I would give it ago. But it’s supposed to be so addictive, more than nicotine, and I know I have an addictive personality, caffeine, cigarettes, and alcohol, Lewis... Oh hell. Please, sweet Mother of God, protect me...

James put the joint to his lips and inhaled...

 

*

 

Sebastian Kettering slammed into his rooms at college, kicking over a pile of books. He slunk to the floor and began rocking, grinding his teeth together and moaning. He hugged himself so tightly. He so wanted to smash his head into the floor over and over again, just to stop the frustration, anger, and powerlessness, he felt. He hated big emotions of any kind. Couldn’t they understand he was not just doing this for Peter, but for all humanity? Why did they insist on thwarting him? He knew Professor Keller meant well, but how could he turn down his request again, refusing to even send his request to the board. It was not ready. They would not look at it. Always the same excuses.

All he wanted was permission and 15 mice, 10 to get addicted, 5 more control, and out of his 10 addicted mice, 5 for his altered substance, and 5 for an ordinary baseline. Just a start. How would he ever make progress? He had been working on this for years, before his dissertation, before his Masters, let alone the D Phil, certainly long before Peter died. Why did people always go on about that?

He would get this right. He would. Slowly Sebastian rose to his feet and went to his laptop, sitting on his bed, switched it on and pulled up his various computer models of the various biochemical and viral markers he could only play with in virtual form.

 

*

 

Billy began to despair of ever getting James home. At James’ direction, he had helped him walk back onto the Cowley Road and down towards the city, turning off at Circus Street and going back up Iffley Road away from the city until they stood outside a fine, Georgian, townhouse when James had sworn and started to cry, before starting to giggle and swear even more, and then he danced up Iffley, before falling over into the street, missing being hit by a No 3 bus by inches.

“Fuck man. Baby. You’re completely out of it!” Billy cried out, pulling and heaving James upright, with difficulty. The boy might be skin and bone, but he was far heavier than he looked, and so tall, it threw Billy’s balance out trying to support him. He didn’t think James had smoked anything for a while.

They meandered their way up Iffley Road for a while, before James veered off down Bullingdon Road, then suddenly James weaved into Hurst Street, swinging around a lamppost, Billy having to catch hold of him to prevent him falling in front of a passing car. Soon they turned off into Henley Street, James cutting through a passage to the backdoor of a large, crumbling, multi-occupancy, Victorian, town house than had certainly seen better days. A Suzuki motorbike and two pushbikes were parked, all covered in plastic sheeting, plant pots sat on the roof of the modern bathroom extension than ran out from the kitchen. The backdoor glass had a rainbow anti-nuclear sticker and a purple peace sign, both ancient and peeling, fixed on it. The glass and bead dolphin and mermaid and the brass stars and moon wind chimes jangled together as James pushed the door in.

“You live here? With Spud and Kath and Dave?”

“Um yeah. Be alright here. Thank you.”

“Yeah, I won’t come in. Case poor little Angie is up.”

“Thank you,” James said again, taking Billy’s face in his hands and kissing him gently full on the lips. “Sorry about Nabil.”

“Nahil,” Billy said automatically. “Yeah. You take it easy. Don’t forget this,” Billy shoved a Tescos carrier bag into James hands. “Go sleep it off sweetheart. I’m sure he loves you, but don’t let him hit you. Okay?”

“I love him. I love Robbie! Robbie is the best ever, ever, thing to happen to me!”

“Yeah. I know, you said it already,” Billy replied, grabbing pen and paper from the kitchen table before hurriedly writing a note he then put into the plastic bag James had put on the table. He put it back into James’ hands.

“Bye James. Go to bed. Take this to your room, yeah. You’ll need it when you straighten up a bit.”

James hugged the bag to his chest and then smiled a sweet smile before turning to go up to his and Robbie’s room. “Thank you Billy. I mean it so much,” he said.

Sadly, Billy turned away, after watching James weave his way through the kitchen and into the hall and up the stairs. He pulled the door shut, worrying, because it was obvious that James meant it with every fibre of his being, and if that hard, selfish, violent, possessive, pusher and pimp was the best thing, then what had he been through?

 

*

 

After he dropped James home, Billy went straight back onto the Cowley Road, pausing at Kebab Kid to get himself a burger and chips, and bumped into someone he vaguely recognised. A social worker or something for Nahil’s Mum. They smiled vaguely at each other in the queue. She ordered her chick pea curry and rice and stood back, to wait for the order, pulling her cardigan over her cleavage, showing below the line of her full-length sundress. She was the only woman in the shop; he was the only white man. She smiled again.

“Don’t I know you? Seen you at Teresa Jeffries house,” he asked. 

“Yeah, maybe. Used to take food boxes from The Door. But she’s not answered the door to me in a couple of months. Aren’t you teaching Nahil guitar or something?”

“Was. Yeah.” Billy swallowed. “Haven’t you heard?” he sighed. He’d only said to James earlier how he was nothing, a no good smackhead, but his Mum had been an alcoholic and his Dad went back to India when he was just a boy. He always knew he was a bit of a Daddy-crush, and the drugs were not different to the booze, really, except poor Nahil hated alcohol because of his mother and had wanted to...

“Are you okay?” the girl asked, noticing the tears in his eyes.

“Haven’t you heard? Nahil... died. He died in my flat. It was fucking awful.”

“Oh. The poor boy. What happened?”

“Drugs. They said it was drugs. Overdose. Accident. That’s what the coroner said, but then the police came round, they told me he had been murdered.”

“Murdered. How. I mean, what happened?”

“He went yellow, his eyes, and this yellow foam bubbled up, and...” Billy looked down, unable to remember. James had been fascinated too, he remembered, once out of his tree, he had been unable to stop asking questions. He thought James was probably a thoughtful, kind boy, usually, not normally full of those persistent, tackless, questions, as bad as that posh African detective who had been round, asked for his DNA and told him they were now treating Nahil as murder, him and scores of others.

“Your burger Bill,” called the man behind the counter. As he fumbled in his pockets for change, the man waved a hand. “Free. For Nahil’s guitar teacher.”

 

*

 

Robbie came back after a few hours of driving around Oxford in the blue van. He’d even driven up to his street and watched Monty sunning himself on the patio of the house opposite his block of flats, feeling quite homesick. He couldn’t even risk breaking in – with his beard, his tacky 9 carat gold jewellery, and cheap sportswear, he didn’t even look like himself, a neighbour was bound to phone the police and he would tie up some hard pressed uniformed officer for hours, going through the motions, getting his undercover status recognised, and all for what, a chance to sit on his own sofa, watching whatever TV he liked, with Monty curled up on his lap? He hoped Monty wouldn’t be too angry with him when he eventually got his life back, he hoped Hooper was still feeding him.

He hoped Lyn and baby Emma were okay. He never expected to be undercover so long. Why, he didn’t know. He must have realised it would take time to bed in and get trusted with names and contacts. He didn’t think, that was the problem, so many people were dying, Hobson was convinced it was deliberate, and he couldn’t see any other way out, apart from an entire UNIT shut down of the city of Oxford, and that was not something he – nor anyone! – would wish to see.

Lewis had driven back after that, trying to shove his daughter and granddaughter firmly to the very back of his mind again. It was the only was to get through this, live as Robert Matthews as much as possible, and he didn’t have children. Or at least, he didn’t think James had given him children with those complicated timelines he had plotted. Damn, he needed to remember facts like that.

The house was empty, when he came in, or at least, no one was about in living room, kitchen or backyard, and he could hear no music or TV. He supposed poor little Angie was in, she never went out, unless it was for meetings with her GP or the benefits people. Fancy telling the poor thing she was fit to work when she was scared of her own shadow and needed a teddy bear to hold to stop the fear. He supposed reading about all these incapacity claims and ATOS in the news was one thing, but to see someone so affected. As he climbed both flights of stairs he began to feel something was wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on what, or why, but something was... off.

James was sprawled out on his back, in nothing but his boxers and a baggy tee shirt, tracing patterns in the air with his finger, an inane, stupid, smile on his face. His pupils were blown and fixed, scaring Robbie.

“Hello,” James said, writing hello in the air.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“I should say that. I’ve been back... ooh, ages, possibly, maybe ten minutes, who knows. Before you, anyway. I’ve been to see William Parks. Billy Parks. Billy Billy boy. It’s a good name for a musician, isn’t it? Billy Parks. You can see him, all wild hair, before it went thin and grey, swinging it over his guitar as he plays a killer rift. Then he met charley and everything crumbled... don’t know why, weren’t they all frying their brains and into unsafe, promiscuous, bisexual shagging? Did you shag anyone? Before Val? Did you have your hair long? Lusting after women in top hats and no bras? I could wear a top hat for you? I even know where I can get one. My uncle always had one. Now it’s a bowler though. Porter.” James drawled the word porter in a deep voice, making his voice far more posh and high class than it ever was normally.

Robbie sat down on one of the nasty orange easy chairs and flicked the switch of the electric kettle on the tray on the floor beside it. “Shall I make tea while you tell me exactly what happened?”

“Tea. Been drinking tea all day. Too much tea. Makes your bladder explode, made mine anyway...”

“You... You...? Oh hell, James?” Robbie looked at the pile of jeans and boxers and socks on the floor at the end of the mattress they slept on. Sighing, he scoped them up as he said; “I’ll get this lot in the machine. It stinks. What’s this?” he demanded, as he noticed a carrier bag under the jeans.

“Presents. From Billy boy. Services rendered.”

“Hell! James! What the hell...?”

“What?” James said up. “You think I...?”

“No,” Robbie said, uncertainly. “Forget it!” he snapped as James started to laugh hysterically, laughter with a nasty, spiteful, harsh, edge. He stormed out of the room with James’ soiled clothes.

 

*

 

Francesca walked home, worried. Sounded like poor Nahil had died like some of her clients she took the parcels to in her voluntary work. And at least she knew why poor Teresa was not opening the door. She had been agoraphobic for years, ever since her husband had left her to go back to his Indian wife.

It was a long walk up the Cowley Road to her home, and on the way she worried about Sebastian’s research, that American prat Amos dying after Seb had given him some of his research heroin, under protest, so he said. But she visited all these addicts, for research and for charity, and so many had died. And others had recovered, she had arrogantly thought it her counselling or prayers, or... well, not really... actually, she had not throught about it. She had to talk to one of the outreach sisters tomorrow. In fact, she must tell them about Teresa and Nahil Jeffries, at least...

What was she thinking? Sebastian couldn’t even tie his own shoelaces or change his socks, how on Earth could he be getting his altered heroin into her food boxes? She went straight from St Mary’s and St. James’ to her families, anyway...

But murder? All of them, murder? What was it, someone mixing it a household cleaner to improve their profits or what?

The poor families, to get over the person’s death to think it was an accident, and then have the police turn up and say it was murder. She knew that man had been more than a guitar teacher to Nahil, but she hadn’t liked to say in Kebab Kid, if he had got his head kicked in by a bunch of homophobes she’d never have forgiven herself.

May she should talk to Professor Keller about this. He was Seb’s supervisor and her co-supervisor/science advisor.

Of course she should. Why think that? These people needed help...

 

*

 

In the kitchen Spud was sitting at the table reading while the kettle boiled.

“Hi. Cuppa Robbie?”

“No thanks,” Robbie snarled, shoving in the washing into the machine and staring at the instructions above the controls, trying to focus on the tiny print. It was an old, cheap, model, spin dryer buy not proper dryer, very different to the one in his flat or the last one in his house, the one he’d bought at Val’s instructions the Christmas before.

Spud chuckled. 

“What?”

“Funny to see you doing anything domestic. You and James have an old-fashioned split you don’t even see in straight couples.”

“Very funny. Must be my age. Or more like, my boy’s a control freak and I never do it right. Do you know where our stuff is?”

“Don’t you even know which cupboard is yours? That one, second on the left by the sink. Is James alright?”

“Silly boy got trashed and pee-ed himself.”

“James? Well, maybe, just maybe, he’s running away from heartbreak. You really smacked him one.”

“No one is more shamed than me, so don’t start up. I know I’ve got a bit of a temper, and I’m at a short fuse right now, so just shut the fuck up Spud!”

Spud mimed zipping his mouth up and went back to his book.

“Um. Sorry. You couldn’t tell us how to work this bloody thing?”

Sighing, Spud got up and put in the powder and switched on the machine at a hot wash.

 

*

 

As Francesca got in, she was in such a state, she didn’t know whether to ask Sebastian, arrange an appointment with Keller, or phone the Senior Outreach Sister, Bethany Angelica. But she was amazed when, instead, she found a message saying that the Mother Superior was asking to see her.

For some reason, instead of ringing the Convent, she rang Professor Keller immediately.

 

*

 

When he came back James was lying down again with the same sappy, idiotic smile on his face, plucking at threads on the quilt cover. Robbie ignored him and made himself tea, settling down on the armchair, after pulling the bag to him. Inside was another bag wrapped around ten slices of white bread, half a block of cheap Cheddar, a half full packet of ham, a tin of soup and a tin of beans. “What’s this?”

“Food. Billy said he could spare it. He hasn’t got much himself but I told him we had nothing. He gave me the names of the suppliers too,” James said smugly, sitting up. “Because I am an excellent detective.”

“You’re not detective at all right now,” snarled Robbie, “and keep your bloody voice down. Where is it? Oh shit, not in you bloody jeans...” Robbie leapt to his feet.

James sat up and giggled, then rolled onto his knees and crawled to the bag at Robbie’s feet and pulled out a screwed up bit of lined scrap paper and handed it to him with a flourish, then slid down, putting his head on Robbie’s lap.

“Purr,” James said, and rubbed his head against Robbie’s thigh, before making quite a good imitation of Monty’s purring.

“Daft lad,” Robbie said fondly, stroking James’ razored head, looking at the neat, looped, handwriting of Parks.

‘The Door. Get your GP to refer you. They should give you a box of food and stuff each week til your benefits are sorted. Do this.

‘For your boyfriend – tell him to contact Wazir Khara...’

There was an address and mobile number.

‘Wazir gets the gear wholesale from Sergei who gets it in from continent. Don’t know if it is your boyfriend’s Sergei. Works with someone else, but don’t get his name. Don’t think it’s Yuri. Too foreign. Russian maybe? But I don’t think it is the name your old man said. Even though Wazir knew them. He was shit scared when I mentioned them. Told me Robbie was big league.

‘Don’t let him cheapen you boy. You’re worth ten of him. I guess he must be scary to leave, right?

‘Thanks for a great afternoon baby.’

“Oh James,” Robbie said sadly, rubbing his head some more, “What have you done?”

“We made music,” James said solemnly. “Smoked some gear. A-bomb. Dope. Drank tea.”

“That I can see. This number is brilliant. I am going to need some serious money for this though, so don’t think we’re not going to London,” Robbie was acutely aware as James wasn’t, that they could easily be overheard at anytime in the house and should therefore try always to stay in character. He couldn’t really undo James boast about being a brilliant detective, but if he carried on as normal he perhaps could laugh it off as a stupid thing he said when stoned.

James nodded, then sat up sharply with a sudden gasp. He cried out and clutched his stomach.

“James!”

James threw up violently and then seemed to almost pass out.

“James! James!” Robbie quickly put James in the recovery position before grabbing a towel to clean up the mess. After five minutes James had appeared to rouse much in terms of consciousness, although he kept on retching. The first amount of vomit had been normal, with the usual inexplicable chucks of carrots; the retching was bringing up yellow gunk, getting brighter and more foaming with each painful, unconscious retch.

“James! Love! Speak to me!” Robbie pulled back an eyelid; James’ eyes had rolled back, the showing whites of the eyes yellow and bloodshot.

“Oh God! James!” Robbie sat down next to James and pulled his head onto his lap, knowing he was taking him out of the recovery position. He gently slapped James on the cheek before checking on his pupil response again. There were still no pupils showing, only yellowed eyeballs, bright yellow.

Panicked, Robbie began to shake James, all police first aid and medical training going out of the window. Oh God! He couldn’t lose him, not like this! While he shook James, holding him in his arms, sprawled across his legs, he yelled,

“James! Wake up! James!”

When James still showed no sign of response apart from yet more yellowed foam dribbling from the corner of his mouth, Robbie yelled at the top of his voice,

“Spud! Anyone! Help! Spud! Are you here? Angie! Help! Someone call an ambulance! Help!”

 

*

Keller sighed as Francesca explained her confused concerns. He had met her in his main office, and was not happy. He had planned a quiet evening in, listening to music. Music soothed the soul, drowned out the... other sounds.

“There are no concerns. At all.”

“But, surely... Oh! I’m so confused. There is so much confusion in my head.”

“Foolish girl. You are studying addicts. You volunteer, and wish to help them. Sebastian is a brilliant biochemist, if naive, he wants to cure addiction, but even if this were a possibility, it is decades away, centuries even. Others will build on his work, and other probably suppress it, as it will rob humanity of its beloved profit. Look at me girl,” Keller grabbed Francesca’s chin with his black, leather, gloved hand and forced her look directly up into his face. She struggled in his grip.

“Look. At. Me.” 

Almost against her will, Francesca looked deeply into his dark, possessing, eyes. 

“There is nothing to worry about. You will continue as before,” he said smoothly, almost hypnotically.

“Of course Professor. There is nothing wrong. I will continue. I obey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually half of the original chapter with later stuff added to make it a full chapter - my daughter told me the ending had to be an ending and not in the middle, where it would fizzle out and lose its impact. This means I've probably revealed more that I intended to yet, so it might be pretty obvious now, I hope it doesn't spoil the rest, after all neither Robbie and James nor Kate and Osgood know any thing yet!
> 
> The rest of the orginal chapter needs editing and a couple of scenes, then I have two complete chapters, so not a long wait for the next three, I promise :)
> 
> But please, tell me if you've made a guess yet! And what you think.


	20. Week 3-4: drugs, drink, and scars part 2

Robbie shook James, panicking, wondering if he should just call an ambulance or come out of being undercover, although they were no closer to finding the source, and James would absolutely hate his death to be in vain...

Death!

James was not dead. He could see him breathing. He shook him hard.

“James!” he yelled at the top of his voice.

The door burst open. “Fuck!” Spud said.

“Phone a fucking ambulance!” Robbie yelled.

“Have you got credit man, my phone...?”

“You don’t need credit,” Angie said, pushing past Spud. She rushed over to Robbie and James and said, looking into Robbie’s eyes, “Stop shaking him. He needs to be in the recovery position.”

“I know how to... aye...” they rolled James over to his side; Angie positioning his arms and legs correctly. Spud continued to stand in the doorway, a hand over his mouth, swearing,

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck. He looks like Dave did. Look at the yellow shit around his mouth.”

Angie meanwhile, was rubbing James’ back and muttering,

“Come on, come on, come on. Live James, live...”

Just then James retched violently, yellow foam and dark brown stomach lining spraying over the floor and Robbie.

He opened his eyes and whimpered.

“James. James pet? Can you hear me? It’s Robbie love.”

“Robbie? Sir?”

“I just don’t want to know!” Spud muttered from the doorway. “You still want an ambulance?”

“Um...?”

“Yes,” said Angie. “I think so.” She rubbed James on the shoulder and stood up and again, putting Sweetie on the chair Robbie had been sitting on. “I’ll get a bowl to clear up the sick. Keep him talking Robbie.”

Spud had left to fetch his phone, and Angie followed to get to the bathroom. Robbie stroked James sweat-drenched hair and forehead, looking into his eyes that although were still bloodshot and a little yellow, had lost the frightening bright hue.

“What... what happened?” James whispered hoarsely, as if it hurt to speak. After all the vomiting, Robbie guessed he had to have a very sore throat.

“I thought I’d lost you lad. You had a reaction to something. You had symptoms like all our bodies. Remember where and who we are, please, for God’s sake, don’t... hi Angie. Bless you pet. James is awake, a bit.”

“How are you?”

“Sick. Dizzy. Very weak,” James said, clutching his stomach. “And a hell of a belly ache. What happened?”

“You were stoned. Out of your tree, then you just sort of passed out and started throwing up. Your eyes went yellow.”

“Like Billy’s boyfriend? And that dead man we found?” James whispered, an awful moment of clarity as he realised he could have died!

“And Dave 2,” said Angie, carefully mopping James’ face with a flannel.

“You’re so good at this. This is the second time you’ve had to look after me. You should be a nurse,” he said, trying to smile, but failing. He felt so wretched and weak.

“No GCSEs. Anyway, they said I’m crazy, no one would let me on a course.”

“If you put your bear away lass, you could go to adult classes, couldn’t you?” Robbie said gently, forgetting for a moment who he was.

“Too many scary men out there,” Angie said, glaring at Robbie.

“Meaning me? Maybe, but I’m no threat to you love.”

Spud came back up the stairs. “It’s on the way. I’ll wait outside, I told them you did drugs, that I think it’s heroin, but I’m not sure.”

 

*

 

Once in the back of the ambulance, Robbie gave the paramedic their real names and ranks and numbers, asking for them to notify CID.

The paramedic stared for a moment, then said, “Shit!” and gaped some more. By the time they were approaching the A&E entrance, going up the hill, she had pulled herself together enough to call South Central Ambulance Control and ask for the information to be relayed. “You’re investigating all these heroin deaths, aren’t you? I always though they must be deliberate. I’ve seen so many over the last few months, all the same symptoms, but never before, ever, not even read about them.”

“Think I miscalculated,” James said wryly. He had stopped throwing up, and the whites of his eyes were almost back to normal, his had low blood pressure and a thready, weak pulse, but they too had improved in the ambulance from when they were taken in the room.

 

*

 

It was mere minutes from when James had been checked in and was in a cubicle with Robbie, and Robbie reminding James of the last time they had been there, which considering it had been following his drug-assisted rape, was not exactly tactful, but he was so stressed and worried, and all he could think of was how close James had been to a heart attack with the Seroxat and Rohypnol interacting, when the curtain swished back for another time, revealing not a nurse or doctor but Osgood, dressed in a doctor’s green scrubs.

“Gosh! Sergeant Hathaway. Kate said you had been taken off in an ambulance. It’s taken us an age to find you.” 

“Hello,” James said. “Been a bit stupid. Had to, to get the info we need.”

“How? In what dose? In what form of ingestion.”

“Hang on a minute! Who the hell are you?” Robbie demanded.

“Oh. Osgood. UNIT. Sorry, Inspector Lewis, I assume, but I don’t have long, if you are to remain undercover – Sergeant?”

“A-bomb. Spiff so big,” James held out finger and thumb, “roughly thirds tobacco, grass and heroin. I smoked it all.”

“How long from inhalation to reaction.”

“Hard to tell, I was a bit... happy. Two to three hours, can’t be more precise. Sorry.”

“And you survived. Most who died reacted immediately, as far as we can tell. This is excellent. Kate tells me you’re going to be having a couple days break in a UNIT safe house. I’ll pass this onto my colleague and he’ll probably want to visit you, run some tests. Right now, I’m going to take bloods and do full obs.”

And for all her flustered nature and her asthma and forgetting her inhaler, James realised this was an order and she had full authority over him.

“Of course,” he said, and held out an arm for the needle.

 

*

 

A few days after his experience, curiosity got the better of James and while Robbie was out again, trying to contact the men on the list Billy had given him. He knocked on Kath’s room, smelling the sweet, sickly, smell of heroin wafting under the door. She hardly ever slept in her own room, sharing Dave’s bed and larger room. She went there when a dark mood seemed to descend on her, when Dave could do nothing right, let alone her housemates. Angie locked herself in her own room while Kath was like that. It was the first time James had seen her like that. But he could smell the drug and, considering Osgood and Hobson’s hypothesis, and the fact by tomorrow he would be in a UNIT safe house, he thought it worth the risk.

“What?” Kath swung the door open with a violence that shocked James, as she had usually been so gentle around Angie and kind to everyone, even if often she was laid back, if not laid out, through cannabis, to the point of comatose.

“I, er, is that white you have? Can you share? I’ll cook for you and Dave all week.”

Kath walked back into her tiny room, even smaller that Angie’s, but she left the door open so James followed. The room was dark and smoky. He closed the door and sat on the floor, there was nowhere else to sit. She wasn’t smoking a joint, but obviously chasing the dragon, burnt tin foil and matches littered the floor.

James swallowed back bile; just the smell of the drug was making him want to retch. He felt close to passing out.

“Don’t you learn!” she sneered, “I heard from Spud that you nearly died.”

James shrugged and attempted a stupid grin. “I guess not,” he replied.

But he soon realised he had made a miscalculation. Within seconds of one inhalation he was running to the bathroom and being violently and painfully sick, although it was normal vomit, not bright colouring nor discoloration of the eyeballs nor any other peculiar symptom, apart from feeling generally faint and a bit weak.

When Robbie returned a few hours later he found James sitting up in their mattress that served as their bed, rocking, hugging the quilts and blankets.

“Wish I’d packed some books,” James said miserably as Robbie came in.

“Hey, what’s up love?” Robbie came in, leaving the door open, and sat heavily down, throwing down some carrier bags beside them and pulling James into a clumsy hug. James looked up to see Chaz and Spud follow him in.

“James man, we didn’t like what Dave 2 was up to, and we don’t like Kath at it. Weed is one thing man, everyone does that. Don’t care what you do for money,” Chaz turned to Robbie, “but not in the house, man.”

Spud continued for him, looking at James, “Jamie, Robbie is already on a warning for hitting you, okay? But Dave is so pissed off with you and Kath. He’s trying to get Kath clean, he thought she was, she hadn’t touched it since Dave 2 died.”

“’S’all right. Not touching it ever again. Thought I was going to die. Seriously,” James looked at Robbie. “Was so sick, felt so awful. Weak as a kitten.”

Robbie swallowed down his concern. He had come back to be confronted by Dave, Spud, and Chaz, all informing that James had got wasted with Kath, and they were not happy about it. He’d had to let them follow him, which meant staying in character, only to be confronted with a James who not only was as white as a sheet and pale as milk, his face a sheen of sweat while he shivered as if freezing, he was rocking backwards and forwards as he did when in the throws of a flashback to the rapes or childhood abuse. All he wanted to do was hold him tight and talk to him as their real selves. Unfortunately they had witnesses and he had to make use of that, and stay as Robbie Matthews, who was not quite so giving, sadly. “We need money James, else these guys are kicking us out anyway,” he said roughly.

“We paid the landlord up front, I thought.”

“Aye. For three months.”

“It’s not been three months? Has it?”

“It’s two months plus a deposit,” Spud said, interrupting, “and you’ve got three weeks to sort it out you’ll be out of here. Sorry. But I’m the main tenant. It’s my arse the landlord’ll kick.”

“It’s okay. Me and my boy have a plan. We’re going to London tonight.” Robbie turned back to James, “I got you these,” he said, tapping the carrier bags. “Go have a shower James love.” Robbie stood up again. “We’ll sort it Spud. Promise. And my baby won’t be stupid with white again, alright?”

James pulled the bags towards him. He looked up at Robbie.

“Been lifting,” Robbie shrugged and grinned. Of course, he had done no such thing, just taken some of the emergency funds and gone shopping. “Not done it since I was a lad. It was fair fun.”

James could see the receipts. He smiled up at Robbie and pulled out the clothes, hiding the receipts in the bag. Skin tight, distressed, dark demin jeans, artfully ripped at the knees and the arse. Red Converse All Stars. Tight lilac tee shirt. Mascara. Purple eye shadow. Lip-gloss. Hair gel. Deodorant and aftershave. Condoms and lube.

“If I must,” he said, getting up and walking past the other men. Spud grabbed his arm.

“Sure man? You fought over this.”

“We need money. Fast. It’s okay.” He shrugged.

When he came out of the bathroom, dressed in the new clothes, Angie was standing outside her room, looking at him sadly,

“Don’t,” she said.

“Just once,” James said. “Promise.”

 

*

 

In the van, on the West Way going into London, after he awoke, James explained to Robbie all that he had experienced. All he had done. He had slept up to that point, falling asleep before they even reached the Green Road roundabout in Headington, waking slightly disorientated, incredibly surprised to find they were already in the outskirts of London. Robbie had passed him a bottle of mineral water and had waited until James began, knowing he would be briefed as soon as James was able. The drive had been a torture of concern and worry, but he didn’t tell James that. Lad had obviously been through enough that day. He listened carefully, his concern and also anger growing by the minute. Finally he blurted out,

“You’re a mad idiot for all your clever Cambridge degrees, stupid lad.”

“I had to test the hypothesis, since I’d had a reaction and lived.”

“Aye, and what if had killed you?”

James shrugged, and looked out of the window.

Robbie gripped the steering wheel and stared out of the windscreen, concentrating on the traffic, fighting his emotions.

“I'll miss you. I can’t face losing you. I’ve lost my Val, Morse, my parents. No more, James. I love you. When I saw you on my doorstep, back in May, I thought I’d lost you then. And when they said the drugs were affecting your heart, I couldn’t bear it. You’re all I have love. Please, I know we’re undercover, I know we need to find the person putting this lethal toxin into the drugs, but no more risks. It’s like you’re becoming this Isaacs for real. It scares me.”

James sighed but said nothing for a while. As they were almost at the Tower, after hours of negotiating the London traffic, he finally answered. It took Robbie a moment to remember what he had said.

“I have to be Isaacs, lose myself in him, think you’re Matthews, or I couldn’t do this. I’m scared of two nights as us. It might put me back, jeopardise us back at the house.”

Robbie thought about what James had said for a while. It made a kind of sense, particularly with someone like James. He didn’t have to like it, but he could respect it. “Tell you what,” he said, “you take one room, I’ll take another. Find some books. Read. I’ll watch TV and phone my Lyn as much as I can. We’ll ignore each other, learn to be comfortable with ourselves for a bit...”

“And then? Then we’re back as Isaacs and Matthews for how long? How bloody long Sir?”

Lewis huffed out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know James. I just don’t know. How long is a piece of string? We have names; we are going to have serious money to score from them...”

 

*

 

They were sent back the way they came, to west London, to a house in Perivale, a small semi-detached 1930s villa, nothing out of the ordinary. James had stayed in the van while Robbie had reported to Kate. In her office he had met another scientist, who had obviously been briefed by Osgood. He was a dark haired man with a perpetual puzzled look, almost as tall as Robbie, young, thin, quite cute, speaking with a northern Irish accent. He didn’t share Osgood’s analysis of James’ bloods and obs, but asked more questions, and seemed delighted by James’ experiment and asked even more, before sensing some of Robbie’s concern and anger, reassuring,

“Your sergeant did the right thing Inspector. We were fairly confident in our hypothesis that surviving the first ingestion posed no subsequent risk. And obviously, judging by the complete lack of any reaction in the other person, this was uncut, pure heroin. Well, as pure as any street heroin is.”

Robbie didn’t feel reassured at all, but nodded his agreement to tell James to expect a visit and more tests, took the key and the directions, and left. James seemed unsurprised that he would need to give more blood and be questioned. It was why he had done it, after all. 

The house had two bedrooms; James took the smaller, back room, saying he was going to bed immediately, he felt dreadful. The living room had a well stocked shelving unit, full of mostly science fiction, fantasy, crime, spy, and war novels, along with lots of technical science journals. He selected a Neil Gaimen and a Lindsey Davis – he hadn’t read the Falco novels in years, and he needed something self indulgent and easy. Seeing a ubiquitous Gideon’s Bible on the top shelf, he took that also, and went to bed, pulling off his undercover rent boy garb and pulling on a baggier blue tee and pale, yoga style lounge pants that Robbie had also bought him. He felt so awful, like he had flu.

Robbie, meanwhile, went to the kitchen. It was also well-stocked, with milk, butter, cheese and ham in the fridge, tea, coffee and cocoa, brown and white sliced bread, along with tea cakes, by the bread bin, and in a cupboard he found tins of beans, soup, Spam and corned beef with cornflakes and Rice Krispies. There were also biscuits, digestives, rich tea and jammy dodgers. Taped onto the food cupboard door were phone numbers of a pizza delivery, a Chinese, an Indian, and a Thai restaurant, plus a local chippie and kebab place.

He immediately put on the kettle and poured himself a bowl of cornflakes to eat while he waited for the water to boil for tea.

When he took James a tray with tea and biscuits he found the lad in tears, Bible in hand.

“Hey, hey. C’mon love. You’re doing your duty as a policeman. There’s no sin here,” he hoped he was saying the right thing.

James looked at him, mystified. “Oh? Oh no, I just can’t focus. I feel so tired and exhausted, every bit of me hurts, I just...”

“Feel like you’ve got flu? McGillop will be here tomorrow; maybe he’ll have an answer. Maybe you just have a summer cold, eh? Drink your tea.”

“Oh?” James looked at it. “Um, could I have it black? The thought of milk makes me want to throw up.”

“No problem, I’ll just add more sugar and drink two,” Robbie picked up the tea and left, thinking how once upon a time, in the rare moments when he hadn’t wanted coffee, James had always had his tea black and strong. Until a certain cup of black tea from a Samovar, with added Rohypnol. Maybe this was one good thing, the lad getting his own preferences back?

While he waited for the kettle to boil again he found aspirin and paracetamol in the bathroom and took a couple of tablets in to James along with the tea. He found the boy asleep.

James slept right through to the following lunchtime, when he had a shower, tea and toast, more painkillers, and went straight back to sleep. Robbie tried not to worry, phoned Lyn, listened to his granddaughter burble and giggle on the end of the phone, watched a lot of rubbish TV, and went through all he could on HOLMES 2 and DOCTOR that all police and UNIT officers and operatives had inputted regarding Operation Poison Poppy. 

There had been so many more deaths, which he found alarming, as apart from finding the one body, they had heard of only three in their extended circle they had crashed, which worried him, that they weren’t getting to the right contacts. UNIT seemed to be operating on three hypotheses, one of which they were sharing with the Thames Valley CID and Drugs, while CID accepted that theory, that some unethical student or scientist was experimenting a ‘cure’ for heroin addiction, while Drugs still favoured it was an accident, not design, that some idiot dealer was cutting his supply with something he had no idea would cause such a reaction, that he was merely interested in increasing his profit margins. 

UNIT’s favourite working hypothesis was that the additive was alien but had fallen somehow into the hands of an unethical pharmaceutical industry and they were running entirely illegal, immoral, trials on the addicts of Oxford. Lewis could see this making a sort of sense. He had come up against something similar once before with UNIT, back in the nineties. But he had also come across a licensed experimental drug for dementia being sold as an illegal high to teenagers by the actual lead research scientist, which had also caused deaths. That too had been back in the nineties. 

The last UNIT hypothesis, that an actual alien was experimenting was more of a mere footnote with a query to one possible suspect, a Time Lord with previous form of meddling and endangering Earth, but Lewis felt such a thing did not fit his MO. No one else favoured Hathaway’s own initial hypothesis of a nutty religious freak on a cleansing or saving spree. It was still a possible, so he inputted it to the mix. Who could know, there could be some crossover – maybe an Evangelical had an extra-terrestrial experience and decided they were called to cleanse Oxford of addicts using the ‘divine’ drug?

 

*

 

McGillop arrived at just gone two, letting himself in and scaring Robbie half to death, dosing on the sofa in front of the rugby. He pointed upstairs, worried about James being asleep. Ten minutes later they came downstairs, James dressed in the jeans and tee shirt he had bought for their undercover reason for visiting London. James was as pale as ever, apart from a red, running, sore nose. Perhaps it was a cold after all. As soon as they had gone he phoned Lyn again. It might be his last chance for who knew how long. He’d already missed over a month of his granddaughter’s life!

Four hours later McGillop returned with James, who sneezed violently as he tried to speak through a sore throat, nodded at Robbie and pointed upstairs, and, without a word, obviously just went back to bed.

“Cup of tea?” Lewis asked, desperate for information.

“That would be nice, thanks,” McGillop replied, sitting down and watching the TV. It was now the football results. When Lewis returned with the tea they sat for ten minutes or so through the results and news headlines.

“Nothing about all the deaths yet,” Lewis said, for want of something to break the ice.

“Did you expect any? If there any likelihood of any media interest we would shut it down instantly. But why would there be? No one cares about addicts, and an addiction problem certainly doesn’t fit the media view of Oxford. Nor even research, to be honest. Posh, spoilt students and Tories, that’s what the media likes.”

“Aye. True. You went to Oxford?”

“Cambridge, then Oxford. Your sergeant is fine, Inspector. Well, he has a cold, a bad one, but a perfectly normal virus. I had thought initially he was suffering cold turkey in reverse, it was something Osgood had theorised, but apart from the feeling of being a little washed out, which is hard to separate from the cold unfortunately, only the initial vomiting can be attributed to this unknown additive.”

“Is that good?”

“It adds to the evidence that this biochemical engineered virus is – for want of a better word – curing addition of heroin. Your sergeant still seems to have cravings and a need for nicotine, so it is only targeting the one drug addiction. And talking of your sergeant, don’t expect him to remember coming to my lab at the Tower. As far as he is concerned I talked to him in his bedroom, took some bloods, urine, and a DNA swab.”

“What the hell?”

“Problem? He does not have our clearance. He had to be vetted by Kate, but just wasn’t up to it. Memory wipe is a standard procedure for a Tower visit.”

“To hell with procedure! I damn well do have a problem with this. He is much more than my sergeant, you know, why should I have secrets from him? It’ll be hell!”

“Why? You’ve been our Thames Valley Operative since 1986. I believe you’re a widower and have children. Did your wife and son and daughter have a clue you were even investigating anything other than straightforward police inquiries?”

Lewis sighed heavily, and leant back on the sofa, rubbing his eye. “No. Of course not.” he fell silent and watched the television again. Strictly Come Dancing was beginning. Val would have loved that show. “Never told my wife a word,” he said eventually.

“There you go then. We’re not sure yet whether Sergeant Hathaway is suitable UNIT material and whether we will have to reconstruct his memories or trust him with an OSA.”

“If James sighed an OSA you can trust him to keep quiet. He’s already signed one back in June.”

“Kate is concerned for his mental well-being. As you should be, if, as you say, he’s a lot more than your sergeant. He told me he had been having very vivid dreams all week, since his reaction. I can’t tell if that was the drug, the additive or the cold virus, but you need to keep a close eye on him and pull him out of undercover if he continues with the flashbacks.”

“Flashbacks?”

“To rape and abuse.”

“Shit. I thought he was doing okay.”

McGillop stood and looked away, before looking back down at Lewis sadly. “Hopefully he is, that this is a blip either caused by getting stoned or being sick. His immune system is compromised though, we’ve given him a broad-based anti-viral to help him fight this cold.”

“What the hell do you mean? Compromised?”

“I had thought it a reaction of the bioengineering but no, it’s his only body, stress-reaction and shock, his immune system has no doubt been under par since he was raped. Physically, he had completely recovered, by the way.” McGillop sat down again. “In fact, since we’re talking about this, can you tell me how he had traces of Gallifreyan medical nanites in his system?”

“No. No I can’t,” Lewis said abruptly.

 

*

 

“Can’t or won’t?” Kate asked McGillop an hour later. She was pacing in front of her desk. McGillop stood by the door, holding a folder in front of him, hugging it like it was a cross between a comforter and a shield.

“Won’t, is my guess,” he answered. “He had no idea, I could see that from his face, but he also knew instantly how it would have happened.”

“So, he is protecting the Counsellor. The Time Lady is still in Oxford. Poor Doctor, thinking he is all alone. Should we tell him, I wonder?”

“You’re asking me?” McGillop raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“No, not really. I suppose we do have enough Gallifreyan refugees dotted about, what is one more. Do you think this additive is alien in origin?”

“Nothing remained in his system for me to see. The small degraded viral markers that Osgood got from his bloods five to six hours after ingestion told us no more than the samples Hobson had been collecting from the bodies. All chemical constructs we can decode are Terran in origin. That’s not to say such basic biochemical building blocks don’t exist on a thousand other worlds.”

“At least. Thanks McGillop. Keep Osgood informed.”

 

*

 

They left early the next morning, Lewis desperate to talk to James about how and why he had taken such risks, and about his vivid dreams and flashbacks, and about how bloody worried he was and whether he and James should split up, that was, should Matthews and Isaacs separate. But unfortunately, even though it was the contingency plan that SEROCU had come up with and now UNIT were suggesting, the way they had set up the fake was relationship was such that Isaacs would never leave Matthews and obviously, Matthews saw Isaacs as a resource to exploit as well as a partner. Besides, if they split up, the relationship with the other housemates was such that they would prefer James to remain rather than him, and the ‘fact’ that James was on the verge of a ‘fixed income’ as his ‘benefits’ arrived, would make him a more reliable tenant. He just didn’t know what to do. He had been selfish to want James, unused to undercover work, emotional and obviously physically vulnerable after experiencing violent assault and rape and a attack to his system through drugs back in May, only just over six months ago even now. What was he thinking of? Was he, in his own way, as possessive and as selfish, as Matthews? It was a worrying thought.

They made good time and got to the agreed meeting place very early. They had no money left so had to just sit, until Hooper pulled up in his silver Vauxhall Astra, waving cheerfully through his windscreen.

As soon as they were out of their vehicles, Hooper pulled James into an awkward hug, patting his back furiously. James looked faintly alarmed over Hooper’s shoulder at Lewis, who shrugged.

“Heard you nearly died Sarge. Glad to see you looking okay. Okay? Here, or shall we get some breakfast.”

“Breakfast. Yes please,” James said firmly, marching off to the supermarket cafe in long legged strides, leaving Lewis and Hooper far behind.

“Shouldn’t have done that, but I stupidly care about the posh, arrogant, sod, have done since Creveceour and finding out... you know?”

“It’s okay. He just doesn’t know how to respond to people caring, Hooper, pay no mind.”

“Sir. I’ve got seven ton in cash here, want to take it now, in the near empty car park?”

“Good plan.”

“Ngoti got a bank account set up for ‘Isaacs’ too, for his fake benefits to be paid, if you stay undercover, it should start up in ten days, fortnightly payments. ’Course, it’ll be coming from us not the dole.”

“I had guessed that. Let’s hope, with names and money, I had trace the supply to where it’s getting added to soon now, and it won’t be needed.”

“Let’s hope so Sir. Let’s hope so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I've been working on this chapter one and off for the last week, and not been on line. So I come to post this and notice from his twitter feed Laurence Fox has 'man flu'. Freaky!


	21. Chapter twenty-one: Week 4: drugs, drink, and scars part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning for some very un-pc language regarding disability. Further warnings for discussion of child abuse and child trafficking.

Two days later they were back entrenched undercover, James having recovered from his cold and remembering to be subdued after what he was supposed to have done. Playing on the sympathy, he sat in the living room, playing the cheap guitar he had been ‘allowed to buy’ with the money he had supposedly ‘earned’. He had spotted it in the Helen and Douglas charity shop on the Cowley Road the previous week, only £20 for a quite nice basic acoustic, nothing special, with stains on the front of the polished wood, and it slipped out of tune every few minutes, but it was a guitar that he could afford to lose! More importantly, it was a guitar he could play, now, here in the house as James Isaacs. The first time he had sat down and picked it up, picking out a tune, he had felt himself begin to relax since he had been told he was going undercover and to report to SERUCO in Horsham. But the feeling left him, as fleeting as the music itself, slipping out of tune all to soon with the battered guitar, once he put it down again.

In private, in their own room, James was genuinely washed out from the reaction to the unknown additive and his cold, as well as the nightmares and flashbacks, which thankfully had stopped. He was also down about the whole flip-flopping in and out of undercover, finding it hard to fit back in after two days as his real self, although he couldn’t really remember much about the weekend in the safe house. He must have been really ill. Lewis told him that the UNIT scientist who had visited and taken samples had given him an anti-viral to help him fight of the cold faster, but surely UNIT weren’t sitting on the cure for the common cold, and a cold took three days to clear, anyway. What was also really getting to him was the having to act being down after the prostitution. It was far too close for comfort to his own locked down emotions from his teens, which was somewhere he had absolutely no intention to go. Ever. All he did was snipe and quote obscure poetry and literature at Lewis whenever they were alone. He didn’t even care who overheard him; after all, Isaacs had his own education up to 'A' levels and then went to Durham rather than Cambridge, even if he didn’t complete his degree.

Lewis bore all this with extreme patience and understanding, knowing how distressed James had been, even if he wasn’t supposed to, as James had shared nothing with him regarding bad dreams and memories. But eventually he got him to agree to go to the pub in the evening, but once they were in the van James merely produced the list from the secure UNIT laptop and was focused on finding more leads from the victims and their families to finding where/how/who from they may have scored from or other friends or acquaintances who used the same supply. Robbie had been having trouble locating the three men on Billy’s list. James was hoping to cross-link his victims, contacts, and locations charts to maybe find them at one of the pubs. 

 

*

It was yet another unbearably hot late afternoon, early evening, despite it being early September, and Lewis had gone to get the drinks in, in yet another, pub, the third on his list. They really were having no luck with leads so far that week, after thinking that they doing so well the previous week. James really wasn’t sure how his boss was staying sober and driving when he appeared to be drinking pints of bitter in each pub they’d been in. James wasn’t quite as successful. But Lewis had finally got that it that he had no intention of discussing the use of heroin and his reaction the night before or how ill he had been until a few hours ago and for that James was extremely grateful.

They were sat at the corner table listening to the background buzz of the conversations. The slope of a man’s shoulders a table two away from theirs, in the middle of the room, reminded him of someone he’d much rather forget. He tried to keep his ears open for potential drug deals or conversations concerning users who had come across weird reactions or fatalities, but the background hum made it difficult for him to tune in to any one table’s or group of people’s conversation. It was also so hot, the dark gloomy Victorian architecture and brown and tan nineteen fifties decor increasing the humid heat of the hot, late August night. And it smelt. It smelt atrociously, of sweat and stale deodorant and aftershave and cigarette smoke from the smokers’ clothes.

“Nothing doing,” Lewis suddenly said in his ear. James looked up, startled; he had not heard him come back from the bar. “I mean, I’ve heard half a dozen arrestable conversations, but no leads.”

“Like what?” James asked, taking a swig of his fifth pint of the evening. They had weeks ago agreed to turn a blind eye to all but the risk to life regarding crime. If everyone dealing dope or passing on stolen goods ended up arrested soon after they were seen in a pub then their cover would have soon be blown. 

“Young lad in the corner, he’s obviously trying to shift the proceeds of a burglary – flat screen TV, small TV/DVD, laptop, and bits and bobs.”

“Right.”

“And that man, by the window, he’d got a bag of ipods and ipads that are obviously off the back of a lorry. Then the older man, there, two tables away, dunno if he’d robbed a fishmonger's or what, but he’s selling fresh trout and salmon to some guys who must run a catering business. But to do business here, it’s obviously dodgy.”

“Probably poaching,” James muttered, looking across at the table two over from theirs again. This time the man with the familiar stooping shoulders was turned slightly in their direction. “Definitely poaching,” James said, a slight panic raising his voice half an octave. He coughed in embarrassment at the emotional display and deepened his voice, saying “’Excuse me Sir,” As he stumbled to his feet and headed to the door through the crowds of people. 

The man caught James' angry glare as he stood and also jumped to his feet, his speed surprising in a man who looked to be in his mid fifties. “James! Jamie!” He followed James out of the door into the street.

In the street James panicked. He didn’t know where to go, which way to turn. He had not expected this at all. He pushed through the throng of smokers standing on the kerb near the pub door and turned left and ran. He stopped, breathless, a few yards down the street, as he saw the old, beaten up Land Rover. He couldn’t believe he was still driving the same old thing! James hated that bloody car from his childhood, but still, he leant on it, shaking, getting his breath back.

“Jamie. Sweetheart,” A hand landed on his shoulder and pulled, trying to get him to turn around. “My boy.”

James turned and pushed himself against the side of the four by four. “Dad. Hello.”

“What you doing here? Oh shit, you ain’t gonna nick your old man, are you? I mean...”

“Dad! As if!” James lowered his voice. “I’m undercover so keep your voice down. We make a deal, you don’t blow my cover and I won’t get my boss to nick you for selling poached fish.”

“Deal.” James’ father grinned and pulled James into a hug. James stood rigid, refusing to react, either to hug back or to pull away. “It’s good to see you. Me and your Mum never get to see you, Sweet Pea.”

“There’s a reason for that Dad,” James said coldly.

“You here alone? You need back-up boy. What’s it about? Drugs?”

“I told you not to talk about it. I’m here with my boss.” James glanced down the street, where he saw Lewis was stood. He hoped he wasn’t in earshot.

“So, who is he now, what’s your cover?” James’ father was trying to tease, from the tone of his voice.

James’ glare grew even colder. “He’s pretending to be my pimp,” he spat out icily. “Keyword here is pretend.” 

James’ father looked as if he’d been kicked in the gut. He released his hold on his son and took an unconscious step back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how many times I can say it but I’ll say sorry forever if I have too. I mean it. I seriously am so sorry Sweet Pea, I am...”

“Yeah yeah, when you’re drunk and maudlin!”

“Not much of a detective, are you? I was drinking Coke. Been sober now, 467 days, don’t even need to go to the AA meetings every week now, can even come into pubs and stay sober.”

“Dad! That’s fantastic, that...” James stopped himself. “Well, so you say,” he said, going back to his frosty voice.

“Not been anywhere near a betting shop now for nearly four months too.”

“There’s online gambling now.”

“Not for me.”

“I have to go. There’s my boss.”

“Don’t be a stranger, eh son. Give your Mum a call. Letter. Anything. Why d’ya have to blame her too, eh? You hate me, I get it. If I could undo it, God knows I would, my darlin’, I would change it all. I’d smash that bastard’s head it before it all started, I would...”

“It’s not just that, is it?” James spat out hatefully. He pushed his father out of the way and headed for Lewis.

“Just know we love you James. We love you,” James’ father called as he walked away towards Lewis, who stood in the pub doorway.

“Alright?” Lewis asked carefully as James walked back towards him. He had been fairly certain that the man was James’ father before he had got close enough to hear the tail end of the conversation. They were too alike for him to be anything else, almost as tall, but much stockier and broader in build, the man was blond and grey, with the same nose, but more rugged features, handsome rather than James’ pretty features, and also his height was not all legs, but he seems to be more evenly proportioned, with a longer body. Next to his father, James looked even more like a clumsy, leggy foal yet to grow into his height. Not that James was clumsy, he often walked with the grace of a catwalk model, when he wasn’t slouching, as if attempting to hide his height, or merely hide from the world.

As he was now, Lewis noticed.

“Fine. I’m fine.” James said, not looking at him.

“Sure?”

“Yep. Yes. Fine.” He turned back towards the pub.

“No. Come on. Let’s get back to the van.”

James nodded awkwardly, as if he didn’t quite have control of his emotions yet.

 

*

Hours later, they made it back ‘home’, after another five pubs and a possible Intel on the two Asian men suppliers, in fact two sources information telling them that their father had sent them back to Pakistan to try to sort them out, and the other that they had two houses in Cowley and Blackbird Leys that were essentially cannabis farms – both addresses they needed to get to Drugs as soon as possible. Lewis had struggled to stay sober, by his not drinking much of his pints, but James, not only had been knocking back pints and pints of bitter since roughly six o’clock that evening, had switched to shots at the first pub they went to after he had met his Dad and was a little worse for wear, to say the very least. Lewis knew he would have to input the data as soon as possible, as he feared it wouldn’t stay in James’ brain, however huge and photographic the memory in it might be, the amount he had been putting away.

They met Angie at the door, she had gone out earlier, which was rare for her, and she was now sitting on the stairs watching the coming and goings of Dave’s very productive trade for the evening, mostly Brookes students for a freshers’ do, not that any of the regulars were freshers, of course. James had a sudden thought of a ‘dealers’ table’ at the Freshers’ Fayre – ‘we have all your drug needs for the student who wishes to float his way through his first year and drop out’. Well, that had very nearly been him, hadn’t it? If it hadn’t been for a certain Chief Detective Inspector from Thames Valley visiting him in hospital and practically kicking him all the way to the student counsellor and Catholic chaplain.

In between customers Dave, with Kath, was attempting to roast a skinny looking chicken from a halal shop, Tariq’s father’s, James’ supposed. The table was full of bags of tins of chickpeas, lentils, tomatoes, spinach, and halal sausages, as well packets and packets of biscuits and sweet, brightly coloured, cakes and a 5k sack of basmati rice. When Robbie opened the fridge for their cheese, he saw lamb mince and chops, yoghurt, and cheese.

“Do you want one with your bloody Marmite?” Robbie asked, interrupting James’ drunken investigations of Angie’s ‘shopping’.

“Uh?”

“Sarnie? Marmite? Cheese? Come on pet, you’re as drunk as a skunk. Something to soak it up a bit, eh?”

“Um both? Yeah. Both.” James slumped head down on the kitchen table. Kath shrieked as the smoke alarm went off and Dave opened the door, fanning the flames. Chaz arrived at the kitchen door.

“What the fuck?”

“Is everyone out of it except me?” Robbie asked the ceiling, rolling his eyes. “I’m going to bed. Coming love?”

James shook his head, eyeing the rather large spliff in Chaz’s hand. He reached for it and took a huge drag, blowing smoke into Robbie’s face.

“Ah. Hell. See you whenever!” Robbie turned his back and walked away, trying not to think to about who was getting stoned, Isaacs or Hathaway, running away from his own feelings. And if it were Hathaway, would he blow their cover?

Just then Angie shrieked as the door opened and Spud returned with three biker friends of his. They all came into the kitchen and one took the joint from James.

“Bye Robbie,” James called to the retreating back of his supposed boyfriend. “Want me to save the chicken?” he slurred up at Kath, who was standing among the increasing number of people looking at its charred outside, and watching Kath stabbing it, its juice running far from clear, in point, bloody and raw.

 

*

A few hours later, the living room was full to the brim, with chilled out, slightly to very drunk, all stoned, people. James stayed.. He had been unable to save the chicken whole, so had produced a curry with the bits he had saved from the charred outer layer, fried them, with a lot of giggling and spraying and spilling of herbs and spices about the kitchen, but it was more than edible to a room full of people with the munchies. Once they had eaten chicken curry and rice, they attacked the bag of cakes and biscuits with a vengeance. Angie hovered in the background, hurriedly leaving to make pots of tea or to sit on the stairs and listen to everyone else. Chaz had been angry when James and Robbie had got home, but had chilled out considerably, but managed to keep up a mostly unlistened to diatribe about how he loved his kids and was a bloody good brickie, why couldn’t anyone see past his bloody prison record.

“So?” Spud said suddenly, sprawled out on the sofa, Kath and Dave squashed at the other end.

“So what?” James asked, taking the pro-offered and spiff from his place on the beanbag on the floor and passing on to one of Spud’s friend sitting next to him, legs sprawled out in black leathers, head leant back on the coffee table. The TV bubbled on in the background about a magic steam cleaner. The TV channel had finished for the night and turned into a shopping channel for the early hours. No one had noticed, or, if they had like James, they didn’t care.

“What’s your beef man? You’re as tense as a cat on a hot tin roof and you and Robbie...man, you could cut the tension between you two like a fucking knife.”

James was very drunk and more than slightly stoned. How much is Isaacs and Hathaway the same, he wondered in his befuddled mind. What can I say?

“Saw my old man tonight,” he slurred. “Hate him. Fucking bastard. Pimped me when I was a bloody fucking teenager!”

Why did he say that? He was shaking with emotion. He thought it might be anger. Or maybe fear. Or both? Or disgust. It was disgusting, poor, poor James Isaacs, pimped by his drunken gambler of a father. DS Hathaway would never have had such a terrible thing happen to him.

“Jesus!” someone said.

“Like, that’s awful,” someone else said.

Then the room fell silent.

“Sorry, I sort of killed the party!” James got up and went out of the room. There was a hushed mumbling, then someone found the remote control and the sound of QI and laughter followed him down the hall. He sat on the stairs, not knowing whether to go up stairs and face Robbie, which he could not quite imagine, as Hathaway would never say such a thing to Lewis as his boss or friend, certainly not his boyfriend, and if he told him and he’d said it was Isaacs then Lewis, unlike the buried, in denial, Hathaway, would see straight through the lie to the truth.

Because Lewis already knew.

No he didn’t. It didn’t happen! James moaned and pushed his forehead into the balustrade of the stairs.

“Hi.” Angie sat down next to him. “It’s okay. They’ll forget. Or just be extra nice to you.”

“Don’t want that.”

“Do you think I do?” 

James looked at her. “How did you get all this food?”

“I went to Tariq’s father and told him they stopped my benefit again. He sort of knows about Tariq and the others, but he can’t really face how bad his sons are. He’s a good man. A good Muslim. He won’t tell me I’m a slut coz I’m white or wear short skirts. He won’t say anything is my fault. But he doesn’t know what to do. He said today he wished he never came here. He came to drive a bus, back in the sixties. I didn’t know that til today. Funny, eh? He soon realised that he could make his own business selling to all the others who came to work here, especially when they brought their wives too.”

“A good business man anyway. You make me feel so old. Why are you not angry? When I was your age I was angry at the whole world! I thought my faith had took it away, but look, I was shaking with rage.”

“When grown ups are meant to look after you, when they don’t, you’re supposed to be angry. It’s okay. Come on. Come back in. I’ve got chocolate cake. I’ll make some more tea.” She stood up and held out her hand. James smiled awkwardly and took her had and let her lead him into the kitchen.

*

 

Dave’s biker friend had taken the beanbag when they returned, James carrying the tray with another pot of tea, fresh mugs and milk bottle, Angie following with the chocolate cake and a knife. Instead James sat in the far corner on the floor, after he had put the tray down. After she had handed tea and cake for everyone, Angie came and sat next to him, bringing the remains of the cake, which was just under half of it.

“This is all for us,” she whispered.”

James grinned. The Seroxat alone made him famished all the time, and now with the cannabis munchies on top, he was ravenous. He took it from her and took a huge bite. Angie grinned at him.

It had grown much quieter in the living room, the TV was now off, and someone had put on a CD compilation of old rock songs, but it wasn’t on loud. Few visitors still came and went to buy from Dave and Kath. Chaz had gone to bed, and most of Spud’s friends had left. One last joint was lazily being passed back and forth, and everyone studiously avoided asking James anything, or even looking at him. 

James and Angie sat there in silence, for some time, eating cake and ignoring the others.

“Tariq was alright. He loved me I think,” Angie suddenly whispered, passing James the last slice of cake. “He wanted to be a good son too, and a good brother. It pulled him in half; it was horrible. He got into smack in a big way, then switched to coke, stealing from his Dad, and ending up on crack. He’s, well, it’s like he’s not really there, now. His Dad sent him back to the village in Pakistan, to his brother, and he found him a wife to look after him, but who wanted a western boy with his brains fried, so he got this girl... well, I dunno what the word is? Back at the home people would have said a spaz and a mong. She’s a bit simple, anyway, got one of those weird faces...”

“Down’s Syndrome?” James asked.

“Yeah. Maybe. Not all there, anyway, but she’s very sweet. They live with his Dad. Never go out. It’s like he’s got a couple of babies. But meantime, when Tariq would have done anything for a fix, well, his brothers, they... they were involved in sort of sorting girls out for men who like, well, you know...?”

“Children?” James supplied angrily

“No, not Tariq, he didn’t know what he was doing, he was on drugs, his brothers did the same to him when he was small I think, and then he really wanted to marry me when we grew up, and maybe we would, but he was scared of his parents, and... I’d known him at Infants, then I went into care and moved, but then we both went to Cheney’s and met up and...” Angie shrugged again.

James picked up Angie’s tiny hands in his and squeezed gently, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s alright. You’re doing okay, alright?” He knew he was saying simple platitudes, but he wasn’t sure what else to do. She obviously wasn’t really, but she was so young, she had time to get over it all. He hoped, at least. So what if she needed her teddy bear and was on antidepressants? He supposed she needed counselling, but he wasn’t sure if she would be able to access it on the NHS, or even if it was much help. He had counselling in his first year up at Cambridge and he still wasn’t sure what good it did. Locking it all away seemed to work for him, but he had observed women and girls seemed to need to talk things through a lot more than men. Maybe therapy could help her. “How old were you when...?”

“Twelve, maybe thirteen,” Angie answered quickly.

“I meant, when it stopped.”

“Oh, sixteen.”

“And you’re what, nineteen, twenty, now?”

“Eighteen.”

“See, you’re doing fine Angie,” James smiled, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“What about you?”

“Um, what?”

“What you said, about the men, your Dad?”

“Oh. The same. Started when I was thirteen, stopped just before I was sixteen.”

“And how old are you? Do you think you’re doing fine? Because, I’m not so sure you are...”

“Oh. Thanks. Great.”

“Sorry Jamie, but you know, smack, getting smashed, sulking about, not working or anything. You’re clever. Like, really clever. And you can play the guitar brilliantly, you could be in a band. Something.”

I am working, James thought, feeling awful about it. “I used to work. I’ve had all sorts of jobs. Office. Waiting tables. Gardening. But nothing sticks, can’t focus. But I think that’s me, not what happened...”

Angie rolled her eyes and sighed, like she had heard all the same excuses from others.

Feeling bad, James let his undercover self do the speaking, “Look, until recently I didn’t need to, did I? Robbie was loaded. And I haven’t been this bad, it’s not what happened when I was young. It’s something back in May. I was raped. It all came crashing down, all the walls I’d built...” James felt he was trapped inside Isaacs, letting him speak for him, all he was saying suddenly the truth, something he didn’t want to look at.

Angie pulled her hands away from his, only to hug him. “Oh Jamie. In that case, you’re doing brilliantly.”

“It was bloody Sergei. He seemed so sweet at first. I shouldn’t have trusted him. He drugged me and...”

“Sergei? And his brother? I thought Sergei liked girls, young girls...”

“What? The Roschenkovs? You know the Roschenkovs? They’re the reason Robbie and I had to get out of Newcastle. After Yuri, Robbie went after them, and they set their heavies on him, pulled his business under him. They were doing trade before that.”

“What trade?” Dave interrupted. James had been half aware that everyone in the room had tuned into his and Angie’s conversation.

“Drugs. Trafficking. Girls. All sorts. Smack in, blow out, people in, given work in his clubs...”

“Whoa. Robbie was big time. Wait til I tell...”

“Hey, come on sweetheart, it’s none of our business, is it?” Kath said, pulling her boyfriend to his feet. “Come on, bed. I’m knackered.”

“Okay okay. Sorry man. Night all.”

After Dave and Kath left, Spud fetched a blanket for one of his friends, who was crashed out on the floor, covered him, then also left. Chaz had already gone to bed after the chocolate cake had all been eaten. Angie and James were alone. James picked up the half finished joint from the saucer on the coffee table and lit in. Angie gave him a sorrowful look, just as Spud returned with another blanket and their other guest, a hanger-on of Dave’s, who was crashed out on the armchair in the far corner, snoring softly. Spud also gave James a look full of sorrow and compassion.

“Why on Earth are you with that arsehole, Jamie? You’re worth ten of him.”

James giggled, stoned and light-headed, “Why, you making me an offer?”

“I’m straight, but if I wasn’t, then yeah, you’re sweet and kind and clever, and he’s a bastard.”

James stared at Spud, angry, “You know nothing,” he spat out. “He’s the best man I’ve ever met, he saved me.”

Spud snorted sadly. “If you believe that...”

“Spud,” Angie said gently, picking up her bear, Sweetie, who she had disregarded on the floor some while ago, and hugging it tight.

“Yeah. Alright. Sorry Jamie babe. Love is blind and all that. Night you guys. Don’t stay up talking all night, okay? Sleep well. ”

James turned to Angie, wanting to get the conversation back. She knew Sergei, maybe Yuri even, and maybe some other dealers as well as those involved in prostitution and child trafficking. If Spud hadn’t interrupted he might have been able to get names, not just for Poison Poppy, but for the ongoing Kingfisher, and Fisher, Diamond and Prince, if CPS were still collating evidence, as they were all due in court within the next few months, he knew. He sighed sadly, “Spud’s right about one thing, Angie. It’s late. I’m to bed,” and he stood up and stretched, stumbling as his did so, as the dope and drink seemed to hit him in one rush to the head, as if slumped on the floor he had been keeping it at bay. He giggled inanely. “I’m going to show Robbie just how much I do love him.”

Angie smiled widely, “Night Jamie. See you in the morning.” She stood also, but placed the toy bear on the sofa and began to gather up the washing up and rubbish.

“Maybe. If I’m awake,” he answered as we weaved towards the stairs.

“Sleep well!” Angie called after him, banging the kitchen door closed with her hip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for lack of proof reading on spelling, grammar and typo errors, and also, for the first chapter ever, BK is not up to checking plot and character to her stringent satisfaction, so I hope it's not... 'off'. But you guys have waited long enough for another chapter!


	22. Aftermaths and brick walls.

Lewis had waited hours for James to return to their room. Eventually he heard stumbling footsteps and a banging of a door, following by a shout of ‘sleep well’ and more heavy, stumbling footsteps. Then he heard a crash against the door and muffled giggles. 

“Hi!” James giggled. He shut the door and smiled. “Wha’ ya doin’ Sir?” 

“You okay James?”

“I’m happy!” he said and started to spin around, turning on his feet, arms out stretched, looking up at the ceiling.

“James...” Robbie he began, getting up out of bed.

“I feel dizzy.” James tried to stop and only succeeded in slowing his spin and instead burped rather loudly. “Whoops! Not very sexy. Do you find me sexy?”

James was in khaki cargos, a baggy tee shirt with beer and ketchup splashed on to it and his hair desperately needed a cut, or shape, his shaved skinhead of weeks ago growing out into formless, un-styled, un-gelled, very un-Hathaway uncontrolled spikes but Robbie himself had forbidden the boy to get an expensive haircut. They were supposed to be living on JSA. He also needed a shave and he had cake crumbs on his chin. He was a long way from his neatly groomed sergeant.

“Always,” Robbie replied as James stumbled as his spinning finally stopped.

James looked down at him. Robbie thought that James was aiming for seductive, but his eyes were out of focus and his pupils blown. As he looked at the unfocused lad, James’ soft hands took Robbie’s face and he was kissed. James tasted of beer, chips, chocolate and a sour, nasty smell that mingled with the normal not nice but worth putting up with cigarette taste-smell.

Robbie extricated himself from the kiss as gently as he could and asked quietly, but with authority, “Did you find anything useful, from our housemates and guests?”

“What?” James looked very confused. Robbie watched the thought process play out on James’ suddenly very expressive face. Robbie grinned as the memory dawned that he was an undercover policeman. “Oh. Yeah. That. Not much. Not of use,” he giggled. “Not to you.” He bent forward and whispered in Robbie’s face, “Nothing of use for you as my boss.” Robbie tried not to back away from the weed, fags and beer smell over laid with... what, chocolate and vanilla? 

James leapt back and spread his arms and Robbie worried he was going to spin again. “But lots of use as my boyfriend. Yeah!”

“What? James pet, let me make you a cup of coffee. You’re a bit pissed, yeah. Come to bed love.”

“Come to bed, yeah. Yes. I will.” He began to pull at his tee shirt. But then he stopped. “We need music. Do we need music? Do you think I should have music?”

“What for?”

“So I can strip.”

“I don’t want a striptease pet, I want you to get into bed.” He turned his back on James and walked over to the corner they had nominally made an unofficial kitchenette – at least, sat on an old plastic tray, a toaster and kettle were plugged in a double socket.

“Don’t you fancy me?”

Robbie turned back around. “Yeah, and love you too, you idiot. And you are off your face pet. You need to get into bed.”

James started to hum a tune Robbie didn’t recognise. It was slow and slightly sad and seemed more folk than the strange hybrid music from James band or that awful, mournful chamber music the boy loved so much.

He had also started to strip, slowly pulling his tee shirt up his torso and trying, and failing to get the movements seductive and in time with the song that he was now half humming and half singing. Robbie suspected the song might be being made up on the spot, as it seemed to be a doomed love song of first unrequited love and then misunderstandings and arguments. The drunken, stoned, dance came to an abrupt end as James got his leg tangled in his briefs and he came smashing down onto the floor with a loud crash that made Robbie wince. James was far, far too inebriated to feel it though. Instead he giggled.

Someone else in the house banged and shouted at them to shut the fuck up. James looked up at Robbie and giggled again. “Whoops,” he said, before kicking off the briefs and scrambling up. He moved towards Robbie smiling.

“You gonna fuck me, aren’t you? I know you want to.”

Robbie bit his lip so hard he made it bleed. 

“I know you want to. You can. I know I’m ready now. Please. Fuck me.”

Robbie didn’t think he could breathe, let alone move. He balled his hands into fists and tried to focus on his breathing. “James,” he began.

James threw himself face down onto the double mattress that was serving as their bed. The same person banged a wall again to complain about the noise James had made as he flopped down.

Robbie tried to move, but it wasn’t easy. “James,” he began again, surprised how his voice was shaking, “you’re drunk love. And stoned. Maybe...”

James turned over and looked up at Robbie with sorrowful, if drugged, eyes. “You don’t want me?”

“Of course I do, I just think you...”

“Good.” James turned on his side and grabbed his wash bag that sat at his side of the bed on the floor. He pulled out a bottle and threw it in Robbie’s general direction, “Bought this ages ago.” 

Despite himself Robbie caught it. “James love...”

“Fuck me. Fuck me now!” James tuned over again, and spread his legs. He looked over his shoulder, confused. “Why are you still over there?” he slurred unhappily.

Robbie tightly clutched the tube in his fist and sighed. He walked over to James and sat down. “James love.” He put his hand gently on James shoulder, trying not to touch anywhere more intimate. 

“You don’t want me?”

“’Course I do. You’ve no idea how much. But this isn’t you love, it isn’t. You’re off your face and out of your tree. I don’t want us doing anything either of us will regret in the morning. And you will regret this, love, I know you. And God knows I will, if I take advantage of you like this. This isn’t how we want the first time, is it?”

“But we’re not us, are we? And it isn’t our first time, not this Robbie and James, so go on, you know you want to.”

James pulled away and pushed up on to his knees, turning to look at Robbie’s reaction as he did so, offering himself to Robbie.

“We’re the same people. And police officers don’t tend to shag if they’re undercover as couples, pet.” Robbie spoke as quietly as he could, but he doubted anyone could hear them over the noise of Kath’s loud trance music shaking the whole house and Spud’s persistent yelling at her to turn it down.

“I thought you wanted me. I thought we could do this. I think I need to be out of it. I want you to fuck me right now!” James was now encroaching on his space, kneeling up and sliding over his legs. James grabbed his face again to kiss him but Robbie caught his wrists and looked deeply into his pale eyes,

“I love you. But you are in no state. This has more of ‘fuck you Dad’ than ‘fuck me Robbie’ about it, I think, pet. Now, put on your pyjamas and go to sleep.”

Robbie watched as James’ drunken, stoned, mind took on board what he’d been told. His face fell, misery covering the fake lust and happiness the drugs and beer had put there, replacing them with maudlin self-pity. He watched the eyes burn with as yet unshed tears and the face cloud with anger,

“Yeah. Maybe. Hate him.” James pulled out his pyjama trousers from under his pillow and clumsily pulled them on. Robbie helped his negotiate the quilt to get under it. His face screwed up and he began to sob gut-wrenching, drunk tears. “I love him. Why do I still love him?”

“Coz he’s your old man, I guess. It’ll be complicated,” was all Robbie could think of to say. He leaned forward and kissed James on the forehead. “I’ll get you some coffee and a big glass of water. You’re to drink both, mind; else you’ll feel complete shit in the morning.

James fell back, his head hitting the pillow. “Shit, I feel awful!”

“That’ll be mixing your grains then smoking dope, no doubt,” Robbie said dryly.

“I can’t quite decide if the room is spinning out of my head or the room is trying to spin into my head. It fucking spins when I close my eyes, whichever.”

Robbie realised that James had been speaking far more with a local accent. It hadn’t hit him how common and rural the lad had sounded until his usual lovely RP voice was back in place, even broader than his undercover persona voice. “I’ll get that water. Try turning over on your side.”

“You do fancy me, don’t you?” James asked as he began to walk away to get some water.

“Of course I do. You are bloody gorgeous, pet.”

“So why don’t you want to fuck me?”

“I do. Just not when the room is spinning, eh?” It had been a long time since Robbie had to deal with drunks and their persistent, strange logic and obsessions. He just had to be calm and in control, he reminded himself.

“But...”

Dear God! The boy was kicking the quilt of and pulling off his pyjamas again.

“James, I said we should wait a bit...”

“But I want to. You should, now, then we can move on and... Oh shit!”

Robbie didn’t know he could still move so fast, but he was there in seconds, rubbish bin under James’ chin, holding his forehead while James retched and retched.

Once it was over, Robbie tried to cover James with the quilt but James pushed it off, arguing childishly that he was hot. He flopped back into the pillows, hair damp with sweat. “I’m a bloody idiot,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Feel better?”

“Room’s still spinning. Sorry.”

Robbie smiled, “I’ll get you that water now. Think you could cope with a coffee? It’ll help.”

“It’ll be that filthy instant stuff.”

“Well, what with your job seekers and my incapacity, we’re not exactly made of money now. It has caffeine, it’ll do the job love.”

James nodded tightly as he said, “Okay. I’ll try,” but turned over onto his side as Robbie awkwardly stood up. By the time the kettle had boiled, James was snoring loud, drunken snores.

Robbie smiled down at James and, adding sugar and powdered milk, had the coffee himself. He climbed into bed and putting down the coffee on the floor beside him, reached for the holdall, intending to take out the toxicology primer Laura had recommended. Instead he looked down at James, lying on his side, back to him, grey checked pyjama trousers still pulled down, his half of the quilt still kicked off, stretched out on his side, backside almost touching his leg. James had been offering himself, rather worryingly, offering himself up for one thing and one thing alone, just like a tart. But he was now completely unconscious, drugged, and drunk, and snoring like a pig. He hoped he wouldn’t be too hung over in the morning. They certainly would have things to discuss. Although he was sure James would pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened, the drunken strip tease, meeting his father, any of it!

 

*

The following morning James awoke with a blinding headache and immediately had to rush to the bathroom to throw up. When he returned he crawled back into bed, feeling like death and more than a little ashamed of himself. Robbie pulled back the quilt and snapped,

“Get up!”

“Go away. Feel like shit.”

“Can see that. You need some bloody fresh air. Here.” James squinted up and could see that Robbie was offering a glass of water and some pills. He pulled himself upright and took the glass. “Swallow these, it’s aspirin, and drink all the water, and I’ll make you some coffee. No, get dressed, I’ll buy you a decent coffee from the Cowley Road, then we’ve got to go out. Okay?”

“Where?” James asked in an annoyed snap.

“Got to find this Wazir Billy told you about, now we’ve got the readies. Could do with someone more big time, but as long as he knows we don’t intent moving in on him.” Robbie squatted down, his face level with James; almost backing off at his bad, post sugar, alcohol, and cannabis binge, breath, and hissed out in an almost threat, “And coz I need to talk to you sergeant, urgent.” He stood up and headed for the tray in the corner where they kept the kettle and coffee. “You need some fresh air pet. Thought we’d get down to the river first, get a decent breakfast to go, how does that sound? Romantic picnic on the river before business.”

“I just want to sleep,” James grumbled, but he stayed sitting up and sipped at his water.

 

*

Osgood was catching up on her reports, following all her visits to local pharmaceutical companies and any biochemical research and commercial enterprises in a 30 mile radius of Oxford, as Oxford itself had given her few leads, apart from Sebastian Kettering’s research and his DPhil supervisor and tutor. She still had big red question marks over the two of them, but very little evidence and no leads whatsoever on how, if someone, most likely Keller, was somehow getting Kettering’s altered, experimental heroin into the illegal supply chain. Lewis and Hathaway were undercover, various other CID officers under Innocent’s command could, if asked, bring either man in for questioning, or merely observe. But Osgood still felt they needed to understand first what the altered substance was for; whether the deaths were by accident or design, and if an accidental side effect, what was the purpose of the substance, and what was the purpose of releasing into the general population of Oxford addicts and those young people who like to experiment with drugs, of which Oxford, with two universities plus a large local population of young, bored, unemployed and underemployed people, was vast. No wonder there was such a large death count, increasingly weekly.

She was laid out on her bed, pillows propped up behind her head and back, legs stretched out. Today she was dressed in bright yellow trousers, black tee shirt with a satin green waistcoat with a black cat broach on it. It was as far as this particular homage outfit she had assembled went, as she had taste, despite her inspiration in outfits taken from the photo wall in the Black Archive.

She really needed to do more research, she mused, picking up her cup of coffee beside her on the side table, closing down the report and expense claim windows and opening up the files of the molecular structure and individual components she and Dr Hobson had so far been able to ascertain. She superimposed a map of a human brain onto the structure, manipulating the manufactured bio chemicals and viral indicators into a model of the brain’s hormone and electrical chemical systems.

“H’m. Need a second opinion.” She attached all they had so far on the additive structure and sent it in an e-mail to McGillop. He had the basic report, but she and Hobson had been up half the night refining it as far as they could. She was impressed with the biochemical knowledge of the forensic pathologist. She was good. Clever, sharp and focused.

That the substance was designed to end addiction seemed to be a working hypothesis that was gaining more and more evidence. If only they could have access to addicts who had survived. Well, more than three, and only one of those had agreed to come back for a MRI. If only she could have the brains of the deceased. So far she’d not even broached the subject with Hobson. She had a feeling she knew very well the answer.

 

*

Robbie had to wait longer than he anticipated getting James alone in the transit van. James had spent a good deal of the last half an hour vomiting up the coffee, water and aspirin. He’d then dived in the useless, cold, bunged up with lime scale ‘shower’, if the hose and attachment to the bath taps could even carry the description ‘shower’ at all. He came out and ate dry toast and black, sugary tea, before pulling on sweats and a hoody and following Robbie out to the van, behaving like a sulky teenager dragged out of bed before noon. And Robbie knew from first hand experience twice over how hard that was. He almost changed his mind about the whole plan. But no, he had to talk to him about what was happening, how he was behaving, how if he wasn’t compromising the investigation, he was endangering himself.

 

*

Sebastian was sitting, rocking, on his bed. In two weeks Michaelmas term would begin and the official start to his DPhil would begin. True, he had been working on it before he had even completed his Masters, thanks to Keller’s encouragement and the whole department’s pride in his ability. But in that time Amos Calvery had died and the police had come twice to interview him, as well as members of the Chemistry and Biochemistry Departments. To say nothing of Keller, who had told him nothing, but other research students and Fellows had told him that not only had Professor Keller been visited by Inspector Lewis but by several other police officers plus someone from some hush hush government agency. Some said MI6, others said some UN or NATO intelligence agency. Sebastian was always sceptical of gossip, and Keller was a very private man, he couldn’t ask him. But now, after no sleep and his review in a few hours, he felt sick and shaky and would give any about of gossip credence. He couldn't lose this research proposal, he couldn’t. So much was depending on it!

 

*

Robbie drove them to Port Meadow. As soon as he’d parked and turned off the engine he turned to James and demanded,

“Do I need to pull you out of undercover? What the hell do you think you are doing? You’re going native here. Remember who and what you are sergeant?”

James flinched. “I explained,” he began, not knowing what was going on, what he’d done wrong.

“I’ve already noted my concerns about your drug use sergeant. I appreciate that the risk before got experimental data to UNIT, so although it goes against all police procedure, this is a team investigation and Kate is pleased with you taking that crap, even if I’m not. Not as your superior officer and certainly not as me. You took dangerous risks James...”

“Granted, but...”

“But not last night. You’ve taken the cut heroin, had a reaction, given samples. Enough. The odd puff on a spliff, sure, to maintain cover, I can understand. But last night. You were off your face. Do you even know how much you toked? Do you?"

James thought about it and realised he hadn’t a clue. He wasn’t sure how much he had drunk either. “You bought me all those drinks before,” he argued childishly.

Robbie thumped the steering wheel. He was so frustrated. “I’m not talking to you as Matthews right now. You are not Isaacs. We are here as ourselves sergeant.” He had to keep reiterating James’ rank; he was trying to drag him back.

“Maybe Isaacs and myself are not so dissimilar,” James answered coldly, beginning finally to both sober up and stop feeling like the world was spinning. “Yes. Noted Inspector,” here he spat out the title, “I was a little out of line. But I gained complete trust and sympathy with the entire household and others, making more contacts within the black economy that will get us higher up the chain. Poor little Angie knows far too much – she’s not involved, but unfortunately there seems to be links between these men pimping underage girls with those trafficking and producing heroin, among other drugs. I’ve got second corroboration of those names Parks gave us. Sir. As well as infiltrating further. How is any of that endangering the mission or compromising us. Sir?” James’ voice grew deeper, more public school, and far more sarcastic and bitter with each word and sentence. Robbie could feel his anger and frustration coming off him in waves. He obviously wanted to focus on what he was achieving rather than what it was doing to him, body, mind, and soul.

“Right. Noted sergeant. But you are risking your health, mental and physical. As your superior officer I am under strict orders from both SEROCU and UNIT to monitor your wellbeing. Last week was disturbing enough; yesterday, last night and this morning are too much James. I’m pulling you out. It’s time Matthews and Isaacs split up.”

“What? You can’t mean...” James sighed angrily and stormed out of the van, lighting a pre-rolled cigarette and climbing the fence to the meadow.

We’ve been here before, Robbie thought sadly, as he locked the van and followed James into the meadow. Then they had both been hiding their feelings for each other and their feelings following the rape, and awkwardly, not ideally, they had begun to discuss them both, feelings for each other and what had happened to James. And a right balls up of it they had both made, especially me, thought Robbie angry with himself for screwing this up too. They had agreed at the start of this that they needed to communicate clearly with each other in their brief moments as themselves if their fledging relationship had any chance whatsoever of continuing and not being damaged by their undercover legends and the situation. Yet here he was, pulling rank rather than talking, and not telling James how worried he was about his meeting his father, about how that might impact on him. But they had spent almost five years never talking properly, not knowing how. James seemed to be awkward and impossible, public school probably, most men of his generation seemed far more emotionally literate that Robbie’s – as for him, he always thought he wasn’t too bad at understanding other people, telling others how he was doing, but without Val he had seemed frozen and useless, and every year she had been gone he’d locked himself down further to the point he couldn’t really say anything unless it was hidden behind a joke. Right pair he and James made.

Yet they had to talk about this. Since James had never mentioned his father’s arrest by him and Morse he assumed he was either suppressing the memory or else just couldn’t bare to acknowledge to his boss that once he had been picked up for solicitation and taken home as a runaway kid. Poor lad, no wonder. Unless, of course, he had genuinely forgotten, if not the incident, the names of the police officers who had found him.

So, talk they must, but without Robbie ever giving any clue to the fact he knew why James had such an issue with his father. James couldn’t recklessly endanger his health like this, however much of a result it got them. Deep undercover required compromise, of course, even law-breaking at times, to keep cover, but not this, surely? He had nearly died the previous week, for God’s sake! As for the day before, seeing his father had obviously unsettled the lad in ways Robbie couldn’t even begin to imagine.

He walked up to James, who stood by the canal, having walked a long way off. He stood their, shoulder to shoulder with the boy, waiting for him to speak, putting gentle pressure, shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, until finally, James threw away the butt and sighed,

“I’m sorry Sir.”

“Aye. Me too. And it’s Robbie.”

James shrugged. “I thought we were ourselves.”

“And we are. But it’s still Robbie. It’s more than as a damned cop that I’m worried about this.” He sighed heavily and rubbed at his eye. “We need to talk James. Really talk. About yesterday.”

James turned to look at him. “I’m sorry!” he spat out nastily.

 

*

 

Sebastian shifted uneasily in the black leather chair, trying to avoid the gaze of the three men opposite across the desk. The one on the left was Professor Keller, who was looking at him so intensely it seemed to bore into his brain, as if he was in his mind, rearranging...

Sebastian took a deep breath, sat on his hands to stop them flapping, and looking at a spot just above the head of the middle Fellow, the Head of Biochemistry, finally answered the question.

He found, once he had started, he couldn’t stop. He just hoped he wasn’t speaking too quickly and running his words over the top of each other. He felt so passionate and focused all of a sudden, all anxiety, fear and embarrassment had somehow left him alone for once.

 

*

 

They had walked all the way across the Meadow to Wolvercote in complete silence, the tension marked in the slouch of James shoulders and the brisk way Robbie walked, the discord showing as they walked with inches of space between them, sometimes even out of step. Once they got all the way to The Trout both men obviously came to the same realisation at the same time, turning to look at each other and swearing,

“Damn!”

“F...udge!”

Obviously, they couldn’t enter the pub in case they were recognised both by regulars and bar tenders and other officers as themselves and, then, at the same time, the small chance they might be recognised by someone who had seen them at the house on Henley. It wasn’t all that unlikely, Dave and Kath’s cliental covered all classes and ages.

“I can’t face the walk back without a pint,” James sighed.

“You’ve had more than enough yesterday lad. It’s food I had in mind. Let’s walk into the village, I’ll buy you some chips, we can get a bus back to the Woodstock Road.”

James sighed. “Fine.”

*

Not too far away, back across the meadow, the Isis, and the canal Hobson was on another call out, a death in Canal Reach, another possible accidental drug overdose or suicide. She wasn’t prepared for what she found, a young woman lying across her sofa, her cleaner in hysterics in the kitchen, sure, she’d seen it all before, but as she approached the body she saw the unmistakeable signs of the mysterious additive that had send Robbie and James who knew where and left her with that UNIT scientist breathing down her neck. The woman was laid on her back, head tipped back over the end of the sofa, cascades of dark brown straight hair falling as beautifully as a shampoo advert, her dark green eyes starring sightlessly at the ornate plastered ceiling, her eyeballs bright yellow, her mouth covered with dried, crusted yellow foam.

“Contact DC Hooper,” Hobson said to the young officer who was at the door, “tell him the agent has moved north.”

 

* 

 

Opposite the house on Canal Reach a man looked out of his window, watching the police vehicles and paper suit covered officers come and go, a large black cat with yellow eyes languishing in his arms, covering his dark, expensive suit in cat hair, tail twitching curiously.

“Well Shadow,” murmured Professor Keller, “Is there any point in telling those dullards over there we had a break in last night?”

Shadow made a small growl.

“No? I thought not too. Quixotic fools in silly uniforms strutting about. What hope would they have of solving anything?”

 

*

 

“Right then,” Lewis said firmly, in a voice that brooked no argument. “We need to talk.”

“Yes Sir,” James said, licking the salt from the last of the chips from his fingertips. They were back on the meadow, having rejected the bus for a walk back across the grasslands. It was a beautiful day, although still a little too warm and humid for either man’s liking. The sun seared down, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. They walked towards the city centre, towards the skyline of the dreaming spires themselves, shimmering like fairy palaces in the heat.

“Let’s sit down James,” Robbie said, parking himself on a fallen tree trunk and opening his bottle of mineral water.

James precisely and neatly folded the chips wrappers and put them into his pocket before he carefully lowered himself to the ground, curling up his long legs beneath him, and looked at his boss with a blank, neutral look, carefully schooling his features to hide the hammering of his heart and his rising anxiety.

“First off, tell me why Isaacs and Matthews shouldn’t break up and I send you right home, now, today?”

“Don’t send me away Sir,” James said quietly, looking down, trying to get his features desperately under control. He suddenly felt close to tears. The heat, he told himself, and the hangover, after effects of the cold and the reaction to that stuff in the dope...

“I won’t. Not now. Not yet, anyway James. I wanted you in with me for many reasons, although God knows I’ve been questioning myself were some of them selfish. But I needed your big brain, and I must admit, you’ve blended a lot more than I expected, in fact, it’s you that’s sold my legend to everyone, not mw, all I do is snarl and threaten and generally make myself out to be a bastard, it’s how you treat me that sells it. And you’re the one that got us names, too. But it’s how you’re going about it that worries me, and that’s a fact James. I’m getting scared for you.”

“Sir. I said; I had to lose myself in him to make it real. Doesn’t mean I can’t come back.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“I knew taking the heroin was a gamble. I know that. I’m sorry. But it got us results, for the science team as well as important names and leads for us. You have to admit...”

“You could have died!” Lewis roared.

James flinched. “I know. That is, I do now. I didn’t think, at the time, I just wanted to be trusted by Parks...”

“And the second time? What was that? You smoked it again in the house, nearly got us evicted into the bargain...”

“I didn’t know that. I hadn’t realised that the other house mates had been so against heroin when they all smoke a bit of weed.”

“Aye. Intel let us down there, their previous housemate did sell a bit to fund his own habit, but not in the house, and the others wanted him evicted, but we weren’t told that when it was selected as a target.”

“You only gave then two days Sir, so you can’t...” James interrupted; glad the focus was no longer on him personally.

“Kate gave me three after I just threw the idea into the pot, didn’t expect it to be ceased on so quickly, did I?" Robbie snarled.

“I know, I know...” James placated. He sighed. “I am sorry, but having survived the original amount I wanted to know what would happen. We already knew that Kath’s supply was not contaminated, that it came from the West country to begin with, so I know I couldn’t be getting a second hit of the viral-chemical additive. I just wanted to see what would happen, test Dr Hobson and Professor Osgood’s hypothesis, see if it did anything. And it worked, didn’t it? It made me so ill, almost Cold Turkey symptoms, but in reverse. You can’t argue that I got plenty of evidence, if not acceptable to CPS and Court, good enough for the research into what the fuck it is we are chasing.”

Robbie sighed and rubbed furiously at his eye, looking away for a moment. “Aye. True. But none of that, none of what we are investigating, justifies yesterday. At the start of this, on day one in the van, we agreed, even if we are generally crap at this, to talk about...” Robbie foundered a moment and paused, waving his hand about, “stuff,” he continued at last. “Feelings. That sort of thing.”

“Yes. I know. I brought up the subject. But I was meaning us. Out new... um, changed status of relationship.”

“Soft lad. You getting upset by your Dad, having flashbacks, to the truck or your childhood, all that is part of us. Alright?” Robbie reached out and squeezed James’ shoulder gently before running his arm down his bicep in a soft caress. “Alright?” he asked again.

James nodded. “I’m sorry Sir. I was bang out of line. I jeopardised our undercover, I see that now,” he said formally, taking refuge in work.

“Well, you said earlier you didn’t, and as you’ve kind of given Isaacs your background up to Cambridge, who’s to argue with whatever you told them about him when you were stoned.”

“I er... exaggerated, made stuff up for sympathy. I’ve got Intel for Kingfisher as well as us, more trust from Spud and Angie. In fact Sir, Angie has asked me to go with her to her Atos appeal regarding her sickness benefit. I might be able to get more information then. She trusts me, she identifies with me...”

Robbie nodded sadly, “Aye, and I wonder why that would be, eh pet?”

James looked away, “No idea,” he murmured softly, watching a ladybird crawl across a blade of grass.


	23. Innocent and the Mother Superior investigate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, back at the station...

“Ma’am. Excuse me.”

Innocent looked up from the expensive claims that Laxton had filed re her latest case. She had gone over budget, which was rare for Angie. It was also rare for Sandra, her PA, to look flustered.

“Yes?”

“There’s a nun on the phone. She wants to speak to DS Hathaway.”

Innocent tried to hide her surprise. “A nun?”

“Yes Ma’am. A nun. The Mother Superior of the Convent of St Mary and St James the Great. Apparently she has tried to contact him five times already over the past two and a half weeks, but her call always goes to voicemail. She was uncertain about leaving a message, so didn’t. Control has put it through to you, as she was most instant that he had requested assistance and she needed to speak to the person heading his investigation.”

Innocent failed to hide her smile. “Only with Hathaway... No! Wait! Lewis said something to me about Hathaway recruiting a nun to do a bit of digging. I had assumed Lewis was being a little sarcastic and didn’t get anymore details, as soon afterwards in our briefing his daughter rang in labour.”

“It would throw one Ma’am. I’ve been in touch with Lyn Lewis, by the way, as you requested. She’s emailing me pictures of Inspector Lewis’ granddaughter for me to put an album together for when he... returns to us.”

“Thank you. I’m glad. This was such bad timing for him. I hope you reassured her that her father was well and safe?”

“Of course. It was the afternoon after DC Hooper’s meeting, so I could even reassure her with confidence. Shall I put the call through to you? I told her I would ring back within ten minutes. You have your government structural changes to targeting meeting in thirteen minutes.”

“Yes. Do so Sandra.” As Sandra left Innocent turned to her computer, to see if Hathaway had logged anything at all regarding sleuthing nuns.

 

*

 

Francesca Floyd sat in The Magic Cafe nursing a cup of soya hot chocolate. The cafe was quiet, the lull between breakfast and lunch. The smells of the daily main option, bake, and soup, wafted temptingly through the open doorway to the kitchen behind the counter. As she turned back from gazing at the counter to look out of the window Sebastian entered. She stood,

“Seb!” She waved him over from the door to the back corner, where she had been sitting. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t know,” he said, sitting down. “Been walking. Thinking.”

“Oh Seb. Let me get you a hot chocolate. Have you eaten yet today?”

“No.”

Francesca forced herself to smile. “Of course not. I’ll see if they have any breakfasts left. Porridge or toast? They just cleared the cooked stuff away.”

“Yeah. That would be great.”

“Porridge or toast?”

“Whichever.”

Francesca sighed and went up to the counter, hiding her anger and frustration. Sebastian was a genius. That was something no one could deny. But he was also like a rather vulnerable but obstreperous child. Although she had accepted long ago that looking after Seb would be a big part of her life, that was when she had though she was to become Seb’s sister-in-law, before his twin, Peter, her fiancé, had died. Now she supposed she clung to him, as he was all there was left of Peter.

That, and the fact that his research would one day stop anyone else living or dying as Peter had.

After she placed her order she went to the toilet, where she took her phone from her handbag and hurriedly texted,

‘Have to cancel. Seb just arrived. Sorry.’

Damn and double damn! She needed that meeting. She hadn’t seen him in weeks. She was uncertain what to do next. She received a reply almost immediately.

‘6.30. QLC. Don’t fail me.”

*

“Thank you so much for returning my call Chief Superintendent,” the nun said on the end of the phone. She had a rather educated, old-fashioned, slightly northern, English voice. “I’ve been so worried about James.”

James? She knew him then? Of course she did! This was Hathaway; he had church connections all over the city. Of course he did. But this one was close to him, Innocent supposed, for her to worry so much over a busy CID officer not to return the calls immediately.

“Sergeant Hathaway is currently unavailable, I’m afraid.” No point mentioning the undercover business. That was need to know.

“Is it to do the with the case he was working on when he visited me? The contaminated heroin and the unexplained cause of death of so many addicts. We alone have lost another thirteen.”

There had been twenty-three more since Lewis and Hathaway had gone undercover, thirteen apparently belonged to this nun. How was that?

“I’m sorry... Sister?... Mother...?”

“I’m Sister Donna-Marie Rose, Mother Superior of the Convent of St Mary and St James the Greater. We run The Door project in East Oxford, although we have outreach throughout the city and indeed the southern half of the county. Perhaps you have heard of us?”

“Food parcels and rehabilitation and training and education of addicts, alcoholics, and their dependants? Yes, I have heard of your group. You do good work, so I gather.”

“Thank you. We try our best to our small part. James – Detective Sergeant Hathaway that is – visited me a few weeks ago. I promised I would keep an eye out for out clients and volunteers and also look into backgrounds and any connections I could find. I’ve made some interesting observations. There may be a pattern. I’m not sure. I was hoping Sergeant Hathaway might unpick it. When will he be back?”

How long was a piece of string? And of course Hathaway cold unpick any puzzling pattern with his super brain. His mind and Lewis’ instincts and experience made them her best team. Even if poor James had been under par since his rape in May. Sod it! As for the totally unorthodox, unsanctioned, risks he was taking undercover...! Unsanctioned that was, by the Force. UNIT appeared to be another matter, condoning not condemning the experiments with the drugs.

“I’m afraid I can’t say. Perhaps we should meet, I’m co-heading the investigation from this end, so to speak.”

Sharing it with that damned commander of UNIT, the shadowy, ever-present, Kate, metaphorically leaning over her shoulder at every step of the investigation.

“That might be a very good idea. What time could you visit me?”

Cowley. Traffic. Busy schedule. Meetings all day. Would need to check with Sandra.

“Could you come to the station for one o’clock?”

Give up lunch. That would work.

“Um...”

“It’s not an enclosed order, is it? I mean, you do all that good work with the addicts and their families.”

“We are a Benedictine Order. Some of us are enclosed, yes, but mostly not. Unfortunately, as the Mother of the Convent, I’m not able to leave.”

Ever, Innocent heard, although it wasn’t said. She sighed heavily. A longer day. “I can’t guarantee I can get away until seven at the earliest, and that is if we have no major incidents. I’m in meetings all day I’m afraid.

“I will await you until nine and Compline. Then, I’m afraid, I will be in bed until Matins. I’m afraid I can’t upset the Order. Besides, after dealing with the suffering of so many, my Sisters take comfort from the Rule. They would miss their Mother. I do hope you understand.”

“Of course,” replied Innocent, understanding no such thing. “I’ll do my very best to be there as soon after seven as I’m able.”

And may Mr. Innocent forgive me.

“That you Chief Superintendent. I look forward to meeting you. God bless you.”

 

*

 

When Francesca arrived at the Queen’s Lane Coffee House, Professor Keller was already there, sat in a far, dark, quiet, corner, far away from the majority of tourists. He had a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches and little cupcakes. He was dressed immaculately, as always, in a black suit, and today, a deep purple silk shirt, dark blue patterned brocade waistcoat and tie. His greying beard and moustache did not quite touch, which, among all the many, many, creepy things about the man, made Francesca the most queasy. As ever, even though he did not need to, he wore his gown, as if a Fellow from a hundred years before. He did not notice her arrival at first, which gave her both the chance to observe him unobserved and also to compose herself. He was reading a battered nineteen fifties Penguin edition of HG Wells ‘The Time Machine’, smirking as if it were a low comedy. He looked up suddenly, as if he could sense her scrutiny.

“Francesca, my dear. A pleasure, as always, to see you, dear girl. Although it would have been much more convenient and pleasurable to have seen you earlier, as we had arranged.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. You said it was imperative that Seb never knew.”

“And I take it that still stands?”

“Well, I’ve not told him!”

“Good girl. Please, sit down Miss Floyd.” Francesca tried not to worry about the way she sat instantly like a dog told to ‘sit’. “What may I order for you?”

“Um. Do they have soya milk?

“We’ll ask. I expect so.”

“Hot chocolate then, please.”

“And if not?”

“Peppermint tea. What’s so funny?” she couldn’t help demanding, he was smirking again, as if she had greatly amused him somehow. It was unnerving, that smile. The smile of a madman, not a respected Oxford professor of biochemistry.

“You reminded me momentarily of another young lady. No matter. You have the latest records and observations for me?”

“Of course I do.”

While Francesca fiddled with her bag, folders, and laptop, Keller clicked his fingers and the young Turkish waitress appeared instantly at their table.

“A hot chocolate for the young lady made with soya, and another pot of Earl Grey for myself. And some more sandwiches.”

“ I obey.”

Francesca looked up from her notes, greatly startled. What an odd phrase to use, even from a migrant worker with little English. The waitress’ eyes were glazed over too, Francesca thought, concerned. Drugs, she concluded sadly.

 

*

Innocent made it to the Convent of St. Mary’s and James the Greater at just before eight o’clock that evening, which considering the number of meetings and the stabbing of a teenaged boy outside The Oxford Academy School gate, she didn’t think too bad. Alas, changing the name and getting in some super-head had done little for Peer’s reputation in anti social behaviour. Whether the Mother Superior would be impressed that she made it or disappointed in her tardiness, Innocent had no way of knowing. She was slightly later than she could have been, too, driving the back streets of East Oxford for ten minutes looking for a place to park. In the end she gave up and parked on double yellow lines diagonally opposite the convent’s impressive main gatehouse. Placing a note on the window for any late night, over zealous traffic warden or bored uniform officer, she checked her hair in the wing mirror, checked her handbag for her phone and notebook, she locked the car, squared her shoulders and strode quickly across the road to the large, imposing oak doorway, and pausing to take a deep breath, rang the bell. It was literally an old-fashioned pull rope too, and the bell clanged a resounding, loud, tuneless, iron clang. At once the smaller door built into the right hand larger door opened.

“Hello?” a nun said waveringly. She was old, ancient even, bent double in her heavy, black habit.

“My name is Jean Innocent. Your Mother Superior is expecting me.”

“Please wait.” The door was shut, not quite slammed, on Innocent. 

Well! Innocent thought, how welcoming!

A few moments later the door was opened again by a cheerful, short nun of indeterminate age in the full black habit, which must have been so uncomfortable in the late August heat and humidity.

“Hello. Welcome. Please come in. You are Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent, aren’t you? Mother Superior is expecting you.”

“Yes I am. I told the...?” Innocent said, stepping through the tiny door, made for extremely small Victorian nuns, obviously. How on Earth, she wondered vaguely, did Hathaway fit through? Perhaps the big doors were opened in the daytime? She felt, anyway, climbing through, rather like Alice after she drank the drink me drink. Really, she needed to pull herself together. But somehow, coming to a convent in a mass murder investigation involving UNIT made her feel a little hysterical!

“Pay no mind to Sister Porter. She takes security very seriously indeed. When one is known for outreach with addicts and alcoholics, that trust can often be abused. Fortunately Sister Porter is a veritable watchdog. Wolf even. I’m Sister Barbara Anne, the Hospitalier. Please follow me.” With that, Sister Barbara Anne’s small, squat, black, form took off like a rocket, through the porch and across the quiet, deserted, public quad, terrapin classrooms and sheds all dark and empty for the night.

Innocent followed, given no time to admire the Victorian faux gothic buildings or medieval cloister, as she was hurried through quickly, but very quietly. It was spooky, Innocent tried not to think, a deserted, empty, gothic building, and a hundred and something years of nuns had once attended to the poor, dispossessed and sick of Oxford’s working classes. Who knew what demonic, possessed, ghostly nun might be lurking in the shadows?

It had bee a very long day! Briefing Kate of this meeting had been the hardest part.

They finally reached their destination, and Sister Barbara Anne opened the door on a rather generic, modern, looking waiting room.

“Well, I’ll leave you here,” said Barbara Anne, gesturing for her to go inside. She spoke with a flat, Northern accent, but from where Innocent could not tell. She was never very good at telling Northerners apart. Yorkshire? Lancashire? Definitely not Geordie! That she could recognise! She stepped inside and Sister Barbara Anne closed the door on her.

Another nun, this one very young, with only a white wimple covering her hair, but with no black over veil, stood up and smiled a rather nervous, too big, smile. She was petite, very thin under her habit, and tiny, shorter than Laura Hobson, whom Jean always towered over. She was pretty too, the burgundy, rather fashionable, heavy framed glasses did noting to hide it. Nor even a veil and lack of make-up.

“Hello. It’s Chief Superintendent Innocent, isn’t it? Gosh! Our second police visit in less than a month! Golly! And such a senior rank too. I’m Sister Janet Marie, I’m Diary Secretary to the Convent, as well as, well, Mother Superior’s PA, for want of another word, although it does sound rather worldly, doesn’t it?” the girl interrupted herself with a nervous little giggle. “Anything she needs, I do...” the girl gave another nervous snort of laughter.

“I’m sorry if my and DS Hathaway’s visits are disruptive to the Convent,” Innocent said primly, sitting down despite not being invited to.

“No. It’s no trouble at all. Rather exciting really!” another little snort of a nervous giggle. “We do get visits from uniform constables, often, and referrals too, but the outreach sisters always deal with them, in the Rehab and Training. I’m afraid the kitchen is closed for the night, so I’m unable to offer you a cup of tea. But a glass of water, perhaps?”

“I’m fine. But thank you.”

“I’ll just go see if Mother Superior is able to receive you.” the girl stood from her desk and stepped away from it.

“Of course. Thank you again.” Innocent tried to smile reassuringly.

The girl smiled, a more genuine, less nervous one. Then blushed. “How is Sergeant Hathaway? I had expected to see him for this, actually.” The blush deepened.

Oh. Like that. Well, the girl was young. And it happened. Tall, blond, and oh so polite. She would grow into her celibacy, Innocent supposed. Ot she wouldn’t and she would leave.

Like Hathaway. Always wondered. Poor boy, what he confessed to me after the assault. Shouldn’t have got him in on the interview with the younger Roschenkov like that. Unsettled him. He should let go of his celibacy, silly boy. Of course, it would be good-looking men in his case too...

“I’m afraid DS Hathaway is engaged elsewhere on this case.”

Round the corner actually. Hope he is okay. Lewis too.

“Oh? Oh well. Give him my best, please. We had such an enjoyable conversation. Such an interesting man, isn’t he? I wonder why he left the Seminary? Do you know?”

“I’ve no idea whatsoever.”

 

*

 

Professor Emil Keller sat in his large, wing backed, black, leather, armchair, gazing into the middle distance, his yellow eyed, black cat Shadow curled up in his lap, purring contentedly as his Master fondled his ears and stroked his smooth, silky back. Shadow found this strangely relaxing after a good hunt. His Master rarely obliged him in the hunt, and he has recently taken to feeding him tinned muck instead of decent meat. He could tell the Master was currently not pleased. His aura hummed with anger and frustration. Was not the new stupid human making progress fast enough? The last group had failed him, this Shadow knew. Hence the move here. Shadow liked Oxford though; the hunting was good.

Meanwhile, Keller replayed his recent conversations with Sebastian and Francesca over in his mind, looking for clues that their connection was deeper. Both were committed, and although odd for a biochemist to oversee a sociology student’s thesis, her main supervisor had agreed to his involvement, considering her subject matter. But the convergence of the two students’ studies and their personal connection through that inadequate Peter Kettering, concerned him. UNIT were not all fools, even if the Thames Valley Police were, and that crumbled, old Inspector had a shrewd, natural intelligent and a lot more education than he ever revealed. He did not need coincidental connections being made into more than they were, bringing UNIT to his door. Damn that pampered, spoiled, indulged, American Rhodes Scholar! A waste of space, here only due to large amounts of money and a parent’s political status, the boy had been a quixotic fool. He didn’t need the children’s research coming under the scrutiny of others, particularly that UNIT scientist. She was too clever, too bright, and obviously had a pathetic schoolgirl crush that was not to be tolerated.

Shadow arched his back and dug in his claws on Keller’s knees. Keller, far from hurt, chuckled rhythmically and stood, scooting Shadow onto the floor.

“Yes Shadow, it is time we ate. I bought some trout in the Covered Market for us both. It looked remarkably fresh for once.”

*

After a wait alone for a few minutes, Sister Janet Marie returned with an older nun, perhaps in her mid to late fifties, but her face was smooth and unlined, ageless, perhaps from never wearing make-up or dealing with the normal cares and stresses of life. She seemed to radiate contentment and peace. A phrase from her occasional trips to Sunday School when her Girl Guides had a parade popped into Innocent’s head: ‘Filled with the Holy Ghost’. She dismissed it as exhaustion, imagination and the lighting, although she was sure Hathaway would be pleased with her fledgling spiritual thought!

“I’m so sorry to have kept you Chief Superintendent, particualry since you have been so kind to come to us so late in the day when you are so busy. I am sure you would rather be at home.”

Jean thought of Mr. Innocent, at home, waiting patiently, a rarity on w week night. She thought of his cooking supper, a large glass of white wine in her hand, the aircon turned up on high, curled up together on the sofa eating whatever delicious pasta he had made.

“Well, yes I would,” she agreed frankly. “But this case does take precedence. So many deaths...”

“I know,” the Mother Superior replied briskly. “They are in our prayers. Please, follow me.” she opened the door, nodding to Sister Janet Marie. “You may retire for the night Janet Marie, tell Barbara Anne and Sister Porter they may also. I shall se the Chief Superintendent out and lock the doors.”

“Of course Reverend Mother.”

Innocent stood and followed, thanking the young, enthusiastic nun with a kind smile.

Sister Donna Marie Rose, the Mother Superior, moved with an elegant grace that spoke of long ago deportment classes that even the shapeless, full-length habit and wimple could not hide. She was very thin and very tall, and Innocent felt certain she was fair-haired under the veil, or fair hair going white and grey, perhaps? It became apparent during their consultation in her parlour that she was also a very shrewd, intelligent, efficient, yet sympathetic and caring woman.

Once ensconced in a soft, comfortable, chair opposite the Mother Superior, she was also very, very glad she had brought a notebook. It was a long, long time since she had taken notes during an interview, but some things stayed ingrained in one since the time in uniform. She was so grateful the nun had gently prompted her to take the notes before they had begun. Some things, obviously, one did not remember so well.

Hathaway, it seemed, had asked her to go through all volunteers and client family lists, check names against each other, check references and Criminal Record Bureau checks were in order in the case of volunteers, and check referring notes and references from the referring agencies in the case of addicts and their families. Also she had decided herself to see if there was a cluster in any of the new, increased spike in overdose and accidental death, that was, a pattern regarding agencies, or God forbid this, one volunteer counsellor, mentor, teacher or delivery of the food parcels. Two strange anomalies had presented themselves immediately. Both concerned only the heroin addicts.

Firstly, there had been a doubling of death by accidental overdose or other reaction to the heroin or something it may have been cut with. This was across the board, regardless of the way the drug was ingested. It went right across the spectrum of age, class, gender and ethnicity. There was also not one area or location; it covered all the area they helped, within the city and the few families in outlying villages.

Secondly, the number of addicts and their families either dropping off their lists due to a rapid recovery, found employment, or a request to move on to more proactive rehabilitation and mentoring and full use of their retraining programmes had increase by more than fourfold. All these again were heroin addicts rather than alcohol or any other drug. And all these addicts had reported no usual signs of ‘cold turkey’, rather that to smoke/inject the drug suddenly made them very ill indeed. So far, all clients still connected to The Door through the other outreach and teaching programmes had remained clean now since they had first reported the sudden disinterest and sickness at what they had previously been addicted too. As for those who had dropped out of the programme and completely out of sight, none had returned nor had their referring agency chased them up with any concerns or re-referred them for de-tox or support.

Innocent looked up from her notebook. “This is confirming a hypothesis our scientific and medical forensic people our suggesting; that the deaths are merely the tip of the iceberg, an accident even.”

“James only hinted at an unlicensed experimentation. But surely, if someone were releasing an agent that cured heroin addiction – cured! Not treated! - Surely we would have heard of something long ago, that a pharmaceutical company or research team were even attempting such a thing would have made it to the press by now. Not treated by some new version of methadone! But cured! Surely that would be a miracle from God? It would be all over the global media like a rash?”

“I’m sure your loving God wouldn’t let so many people die, so it is certainly not that. As for the press...” Innocent shrugged. “I’m sure you are correct, if it were an actual company, they would want it out there to get more money and support. But if out theory of unlicensed research is the correct one, the success rate, going on what you have observed with your clients is four cures to every two deaths – that is not something that would ever be licensed! And in such early stages of development, I’m not sure publicity would be sought, and mice not people should be the ones dying.”

“We are all God’s beloved creatures, mice and men, Chief Superintendent,” Sister Donna Marie Rose said mildly.

“Maybe, but it’s my job to prevent the unlawful killing of people, of human beings, not debate the morality of animal experimentation.”

“Of course. But having found a pattern, I have much more concerning information to also give you. I’m sure it must be a convenience. After all, I can’t understand how... why... It must be a coincidence! But it would be remiss of me...”

“Please give me all you’ve uncovered. Let me and my team decide what to do with it.”

“Fine,” the nun took a deep breath and began.

It seemed every death bar one, and all the ‘cured’ addicts had received their food boxes from one volunteer and one alone: Francesca Floyd.

“But, surely it is only a slight worry? It must be a coincidence? Fran is a lovely girl, genuinely caring and committed to our work.”

“Okay. You may be right. But she might be a link, unwittingly, perhaps. I’m afraid we will have to ask her a few questions at the very least, and I must formally ask you, Reverend Mother, not to warn her in any way of this conversation of the fact she will be hearing from us.”

“Of course. You have my word. And I assume you will need me to you all about her and give you her contact details?”

Innocent mouth twitched a small smile. Inside, she wanted to punch the air. A suspect! At last! Although she still had her doubts about Sebastian Kettering. She replied, politely and calmly, “If you could, tell you it would be a great help.”

Francesca Floyd was a post-graduate sociology student at Keble. She lived in East Oxford. DPhil thesis was looking into the long-term changes in families and their habits with a heroin user as one of their members living in their mist. A user had to live in the same household to be part of her study group. But also, she was examining the effects on the wider, extended family, friendship groups, neighbourhood and communities around that family. Several families, with the permission of Tbe Door, their GPs and social workers, had agreed to be part of her study group. These families, of course, were not the same ones whom she visited as a volunteer.

“And what of her control group for her thesis? Are there any families there experiences a death or a ‘cure’? Is there any way of knowing that, or finding it out?”

“None of those we had on our clients lists that were taking part in Fran’s study have had a single death or recovery. I can’t comment on the others that her supervisor has provided for her. You will need to get in touch directly with her tutor at her college for that.”

“Of course. It will be done. Perhaps someone is using her, putting the contaminated drug into the charity boxes you deliver? Does she go straight from here to one house at a time? How tight is your security? I would like to give the girl the benefit of the doubt since you thin it highly unlikely to be her. You suggested as such yourself?”

“The parcels and boxes are prepared twice daily in a large, open area. Most of our recipients come to collect them. We’ve never thought of security in such tight terms – if someone pilfers a loaf of bread or a block of cheese, well, their need must have been great. There is no access from the courtyard and outer quad into the Cloister and Private Convent apart from through the one doorway, which is locked if not manned, and no way in or out except through either the main gate, manned by Sister Porter, or the back entrance is locked at all times, an entry phone and lock with CCTV controlled in the Porter’s Lodge.”

“M’mm. Okay. If the planting is happening into your food boxes, it is happening in Miss Floyd’s car, known or unbeknown to her.”

“She might take up to ten boxes out with her in one go, delivering to a wide area. We give her a petrol allowance.”

“So, yes, it is possible that she is be used without knowing, as you hope Reverend Mother.”

“Oh, I hope so. Fran, as I said, is a sweet girl.”

Or perhaps, thought Innocent, she wouldn’t want to muck up her thesis with complications like the stress of bereavement or the joy of a recovery, not if the thesis was examining long term effects of living with an addict, one who neither died nor got better. But she didn’t want to upset this sweet, helpful nun, so instead asked for any more information.

Francesca Floyd had been engaged to Peter Kettering, a promising Physics student at Merton, but unknown to her, he had been a long-term heroin user. He had died of an overdose, accidental or deliberate was never determined. The Coroner had ruled an open verdict.

“Of course, due to hr own bereavement, we’ve never allowed Francesca to have contact with our registered addicts, never to provide counselling or advice. She obviously provides general support and friend ship through her contact with the isolated families she visits with the food boxes – to receive a delivery the client family must have some form of disability, illness or other reason to be vulnerable, housebound or have restricted mobility, it’s normally the wife or girlfriend she will form a connection with – in so many cases, mostly, sadly, it is the husband or boyfriend who has the issues and the addiction. Not always, but in Francesca’s case, those she visited were female. I believe a couple of the families were a lesbian couple, but she was still visiting a girlfriend.”

“So, she would not even see the addict, in the usual scheme of things, even if she were to be passing this contaminated heroin?”

“Well, obviously, he might be home. But the women usually chose a time to receive our gifts when their partner is out. As I said, most of out clients come to us directly, Francesca drops to nearly all our outlying clients in remote villages with not transport links as well as those with restricted mobility or health problems, or of course, a disabled child and several small children.”

Innocent thanked the Mother Superior and tied to wind up the conversation as quickly as she possibly could, surprised at the warmth and affection of the inquiry into James’ Hathaway’s health and general well-being, even more surprised he had confided in this Sister so much concerning his assault and rape. She felt she might have come across as brusque and uncaring for hr sergeant. But no matter. They had a suspect! With motive! And opportunity! Of sorts. A disturbed motive, admittedly. But a motive, with means and opportunity, none the less.

With more than a little guilt, she texted Mr. Innocent with more apologies, but she had information she had to input into the computer back at the station immediately.

And tell Kate, she didn’t add


	24. Week 6, dealers, relatives and companions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another possible suspect? Meanwhile, Robbie gets a glimpse into James' family...

It was another afternoon of hanging out in a pub that had been flagged on Hathaway’s chart as having several of the victims in common. This time they were in The Rusty Bicycle, a quiet pub on the corner of Magdalen Road and Hurst Street, just a stone’s throw around the corner from their undercover home.

James sat morosely staring out of the window, across the road at the vegetarian, organic, whole food cafe The Magic Cafe. It too had been flagged, and was flagged much more recently in connection with the two students with motive, one with means, one with opportunity. However, there was not evidence linking them to be working together, their only connection a personal one. Both interviews had been unsatisfactory, Hooper had reported in their recent, second, meeting, which had again been at a service station, this time the much nearer one of Wheatley Services, just south of Oxford. Lewis had already spoken to Kettering himself, as had James, and both agreed that in their gut they doubted he was connected. Hooper had doubts about the girl, Floyd.

He watched the rain course down the window and sheet across the street, a very wall of water. As abruptly as the heat wave had begun, it had ended, in mighty thunderstorms and torrential rains and flooding. It had rained solidly for days now; the Abingdon Road in the south of the city was closed due to flooding, as were many side streets. The thunder and lightening, however, had long abated, which was a blessing, as poor Angie had been as terrified as a small child, and in the absence of Kath, she had followed James about the house like a lost, frightened, puppy. He worried so much about her; she needed proper mental health support, not drugs, prescription or illegal. The temperature had dropped abruptly too, by more than ten degrees centigrade in hours from the start of the storms, and had not risen. Although it was now in reality the normal warmth of a British summer, around nineteen or twenty degrees Celsius, it felt so much, much colder after the sweltering, unnatural heat of the low thirties for the past month or so. He and Robbie, with their personas’ lack of incomes had had to quickly search the charity shops along the Cowley Road. He now had a padded jacket in red tartan and a ratty sleeved grey hoody and Robbie had a cheap, seen much better days, generic black anorak and an old man cardigan in sludge brown. They offended James’ sensibilities, particularly seeing Lewis – Robbie! – in trackie bums with white piping, football shirt, tacky gold jewellery and now a revolting cardy the colour of shit along with a train spotter’s’ coat! It went horribly with Robbie’s new face, as he was still refusing to shave, although he was now at least trimming and shaping his beard. He looked nothing like DI Lewis of James’ adoration, behaved nothing like it either. He was surprised, really, at how incredibly good and convincing Lewis was at this undercover business. He wasn’t too sure about himself, he had chosen an alternative universe version of himself, really, which meant his background up to university was the same, he just didn’t stop the drug experimentation in his first year, nor make it to Cambridge, or have a vocation, or a faith at all really – well, James wasn’t sure about that, he was sure this one must have a vague one, his own was so ingrained, like breathing, he could not imagine not believing in a God in some way or the other.

He thought, even as he looked, he saw the dark, tousle-haired, messy and dirty-clothed Sebastian Kettering exit the cafe opposite, followed by Francesca of the long, flowing, pre-Raphaelite blonde looks. He itched and itched to pull out his work phone and inform Hooper he had eyeballed her. Or better yet, just leap up, grab her warrant card and ask her to accompany him to the station. She had vanished after her initial interview with Hooper, despite promising to stay around Oxford. It looked like she had, at least. Perhaps Hooper hadn’t been looking too hard, convinced as he was the girl had nothing to do with the contaminated heroin and the deaths. Sadly, both phone and badge were back at St Aldates Police Station, in a box, under lock and key, along with Lewis’ card, phone, and keys; in a strong box in Innocent’s office.

He was no longer DS Hathaway, but James Isaacs, Jamie to his housemates, a permanently half-stoned fuck-up, beloved for his cooking and little else.

As he watched Sebastian and Francesca walk away someone put a notice in the window of the cafe:

“Maternity cover. 6 months to 1 year. Part-time. Cook. Some serving. Training given. Apply within.”

“Alright pet?” Robbie said suddenly at his elbow, placing fresh pints on the table and sitting beside him.

“Yeah. Sure. Look.”

“At what?”

The lights of the cafe, however, were now switched off, and it fell into darkness. James sighed and said, 

“That hippie veggie caff, they want a part time chef. I could do that, couldn’t I?”

“Thought I looked after you pet,” Robbie said for effect, although he managed to convey it with a look of an opposite response, one that said, ‘bloody brilliant idea!’

“Yeah, but... Just ’til you get sorted out. I can cook, you know!”

“Yeah. I know. Fine. Ask tomorrow morning then. If you can get up that early!”

 

*

 

Meanwhile Osgood was hurrying through the miserable, dripping wet looking tourists and local shoppers on The High, having just got off a bus from the John Radcliffe, where she had Hobson and just had another unproductive post-mortem, they learned very little more with each body. Two more deaths, brothers, again adding weight to the hypothesis that there was a genetic component to the fatal reaction to whatever the additive was! If only they could get more samples of the DNA of survivors rather than the five they had to work with in lab and computer modelling. It really was a too small a sample.

Also, Hobson was obstructing her at every level. She was desperate to send some victims’ brains to her lab at the Tower but the infuriating Home Office pathologist was full of rights of next of kin, permission being sort and all sorts of obstructive bureaucratic red tape and feelings of bereaved relatives. She wouldn’t even let her take the ones disowned by family, the ones so lost to heroin they were in hostels or on the streets. Not without a notice of some sort. Stupid woman! She knew that the key was somewhere in the brain, the chemistry must somehow being altered by this additive. It was curing others, if anecdotal evidence was anything to go by. Hearsay Kate said, still not enough to go on. But she had promised to send down Malcolm when she could spare him; they could break into the path labs late on night and have a go at the brains still in their bodies in the lockers.

Distracted by such thoughts, she clumsily put up her umbrella, nearly stabbing a tourist in the eye.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. Today she was dressed in pale yellow candy striped trousers and a cricket jumper for warmth, but she had no coat. Fortunately she had her Docs on, they were warm and waterproof, and her satchel and leather laptop case were both extremely waterproof.

“It’s fine,” the very slender, short woman with masses of fading red curls replied, smiling widely, a smile set to disarm and engage a person, a smile rather like the Doctor often wore.

Of course, Osgood spend hours studying the photo wall inside the Black Archive, and instantly, before she could engage her brain, had blurted out,

“Melanie Bush?”

“Do I know you?” the smile disappeared instantly, replaced by a look of careful, balanced, wariness.

“No. But I know about you. Gosh! This is thrilling, you actually travelled with him.”

“Who are you? How the hell do you know...?”

“Oh. Sorry. I’m Osgood. Ingrid Osgood. I, er, work for UNIT,” she said, lowered her voice.

“Why are you here?”

“That’s classified.”

“Look, you can’t drop that into the conversation, and recognise me like this, without sharing. Time for coffee?”

“Oh. Gosh! Yes. Of course. It would be wonderful to...” Osgood stumbled out in between wheezes.

Melanie looked at Osgood appraisingly, “Do you have an inhaler or something?”

 

*

 

James and Robbie had sat in companionable silence for almost an hour, the kind of comfortable togetherness that was not an act, and took no working out at all. They witnessed no underhand dealings, overheard no whispered conversations of drug-dealing or scoring, no gossip of deaths by heroin overdoes, weird or otherwise, no good news imparted that someone somebody else knew had managed to kick the habit and become clean, with no cold turkey involved.

Robbie was just about to suggest they leave the quiet, nearly empty pub for a later time, perhaps a Friday or Saturday night, when the door opened again and a man entered, shaking the rain off his black umbrella.

“Hi Tom,” he said to the barman. “Pint of Guinness. And some peanuts. Half starved today! Bloody tourists, worse than the students!”

Robbie glanced sideways, wondering why the hell James was shrinking back in his chair, determinedly looking away, out of the window, at the grey, rain streaked view. He turned his attention back to the new arrival and the barman.

“Sure Jon. Ready salted do you? Been a quiet day here. Must be the rain. Had a Japanese tourist in earlier, bit rare. She wanted to try to steak and kidney pudding. Oh, sorry!”

Jon smiled a relaxed easy smile that reminded Robbie in some way of James’ very rare moments of happiness when they were alone together. “Veganism isn’t a religion, Tom,” Jon said mildly, before pulling of his porter’s bowler hat, revealing tightly bound, long, greying, and blond hair. His nose and cheekbones were unmistakeably Hathaway-like, thought Robbie, shocked, as he watched Jon undo the tight bun at the nape of his neck, which was revealed to be a plait coiled up. He undid the plait and shook out his long, blond curls, streaked with grey. He looked to be about fifty years old. But Robbie’s attention was taken by the hair – Robbie, youth of the seventies, fan of prog and glam rock back in his day, instantly wanted James to grow his hair, the demand of which from James he could imagine only too well: ‘Over my dead body!’

He nudged James, who looked around instinctively, catching Jon’s attention as he scanned the room for somewhere to sit,

“Jamie! Sweetheart! Is that you?”

“Uncle Jon,” James replied testily, looking up at Jon.

Ah, thought Robbie, that explains it. Must be his father’s younger brother. Damn! I hope this doesn’t blow our cover!

 

*

 

“This is all very well,” Melanie said, interrupting Osgood’s general chitchat about Kate reforming UNIT with her father’s blessing, that a Lethbridge Stewart was now head of science and effectively commander in chief above the military. “But why are you in Oxford? What is happening? Is the Doctor involved? Which incarnation?”

They were sitting at the very back of the upstairs of a small Starbucks on The High. Melanie was sipping a herbal tea. Osgood had a strong espresso and a lemon muffin – she had been up for hours and had missed lunch. The redhead had managed to express her distaste for such an unhealthy choice.

“Why are you in Oxford then?” Osgood countered.

“I ‘apparently’ lecture in computer science. I had an interview at Brookes for a position. This is my fourth interview in a month.” Osgood could hear the speech quotations and the bitterness. Adjustment could be hard, Kate had said of another former companion, after interviewing her.

According to Kate’s notes Bush had not long returned to Earth, after an absence of twenty years. She had left the Doctor to travel with another alien, grown bored of him and had been space and time hopping, hitch-hiking her way back home for the past three. She believed that for her, personally, she had been gone nearer ten. Kate’s people had provided new qualifications and a fake work history.

Osgood sighed, any port in a storm, and so on. She began to explain the deaths, the symptoms, the supposed others who were ‘cured’, the believed experimentation and the fear of Kate’s it might be the Master.

“Doesn’t sound like his MO at all. Why? What for? It won’t achieve global domination. Is he working with aliens who want to use reformed addicts as a local army for invasion? Do you have any proof at all it is him? Or any other Time Lord? Any aliens at all?”

“No. Not as such. But we can’t rule it out. The reaction, particularly in those we’ve heard of recover, is so spectacular, it seems unlikely to be something of complete human origin, or at least, a human from our time. We’ve some anecdotal evidence that it appears to be a success rate of four to two. Even the most unethical pharmaceutical company that wished to by-pass strident licensing and experimentation law to increase profit would balk at such a low success rate. Two in every four dead. Seems unlikely to be human agent.”

“I can see that. But perhaps you have a human bent on cleansing society of addicts; perhaps they didn’t care if they are dead or cured, merely no longer an addict? A religious nut with a science background?”

“The police are investigating that angle, of course, but...” Osgood shrugged. “A human with access to alien biochemistry and raw materials is also a possibility.”

“Oh, for goodness sakes, how many humans have contact with aliens?”

Osgood looked meaningfully at Melanie.

“Me?”

Osgood made a go on, more gesture with her hand.

“Other companions?”

Osgood shrugged. Then sighed. “No, we keep track of them. There was a Time Lady here, in Oxford, for the entire twentieth century, at least, but we’ve never been able to establish if she left in her TARDIS, much less had companions in any travels.”

“A Time Lady? Wait...”

“What?”

Melanie leaned forward, gesturing over the table with her fingers, “This is just an idea, but I did meet a Time Lady with the Doctor. She’s a phenomenal biochemist. She has her own planet, Miasma something or other, but we met her on another planet – she experiments on her own planet’s people and she was on this one, and the Doctor told me before he had met her on Earth, mid nineteenth century – she experiments on the brain chemistry of sentient species. She’s cold, calculating, only interested in her scientific biochemical research, nothing else. Could she be...?”

Osgood practically bounced up and down in her seat, then had a massive asthma attack for sheer joy and excitement. Wait until she told Kate. They had another suspect!

 

*

 

Meanwhile, across the city in East Oxford, James tried not to squirm in his seat like an embarrassed child as Jon moved to their table and sat down

“How you doing babes?” he said, looking down the table, putting his drink down in between Robbie and James’s empty glasses. He watched as his nephew’s hand as James traced in spilled beer on the table,

‘Undercover’

Jon nodded barely perceptively, his eyes clever and full of instant understanding, reminding Robbie yet again of James. Not at all like his father, really. Apart form a certain physically similarity they had had nothing in common. In face, Robbie had wanted to punch that man on sight, looking back at it. He was glad James had some more positive relatives.

“Didn’t even know you were around again,” Jon said carefully, a sharp, questioning look in his eyes.

“Robbie and me ’ad to leave Newcastle quickly,” James said, with full Oxfordshire accent. Jon, his back to the pub, only seen by James and Robbie, raised a quizzical eyebrow at the accent.

“Ah. Right,” he replied. “How are you Robbie? Long time, no see, eh?”

Lewis was impressed at the speed James’ Uncle Jon had grasped the situation and was willing to play along, “Not bad,” Lewis replied. “Had better times. Got into a bit of hot water, like...”

Just then the only other group of men got up, shouting their goodbyes to each other, and to Tom, the barman, and nodding at Jon as they passed, one after the other, left the pub. Tom went into the kitchen, leaving the three men alone, apart from a young Polish couple in the far corner to them, and an elderly, hopefully deaf, man sitting at the bar.

“How long? Why?” Jon said hurriedly. “This is you boss, DI Lewis, isn’t it? Nice to finally to meet you and put a face to you, by the way,” he nodded to Lewis, who smiled back thinly. What had been said about him, he would love to know.

“Just coming up for six weeks. And yes, this is Inspector Lewis...” James couldn’t disguise the pride in his voice.

Lewis raised a hand and smiled more warmly. Jon grinned back. He was much freer with his smiles than his nephew. Or his big brother, either, from the little Robbie had seen.

“It’s to do with drugs. Heroin. There have now been over eighty deaths of users whose supply has been cut with an unknown substance, believed to be experimental.”

“They – whoever they are – are using the poor addicts as guinea pigs,” Lewis added.

“We’re trying to blend in, hear news of those who survive the additive, try and find the larger dealers and then their suppliers and work our way up the chain, find whoever, whatever – where this experimental chemical/viral thing gets added.”

“Viral? As in a virus in the heroin? Killing poor addicts, as if their life wasn’t as wasted and tough enough already!” Jon said, alarmed and angry.

Lewis glared at James, most of that was classified.

“Our forensic experts think so. Or some biochemical compound that has viral markers, or imitates a virus,” James went on, ignoring his boss’ glare.

Jon whistled. “Wow! Baby! That is heavy...” he suddenly flipped to light hearted and jovial, as he had noticed immediately the door open and a group of mixed young people enter the pub, and Tom emerge from the kitchen, “... but you should have told me you were back in Oxford sweetheart. We’re not all homophobic, uptight, religious dicks in this family. You know I’m cool with... whatever, yeah?” Jon laid his hand on James’ arm. As Robbie watched, he felt the little speech was heartfelt and not just affect. Jon was obviously using the bizarre situation to maybe say what he had wanted to say for a long time. Jon turned to him, “So Robbie. Newcastle? Gateshead?”

Robbie shuddered at the thought. “Newcastle. What else? You insult me!”

“Big game Sunday. Derby. What to come round and see the match at mine? Just got a new TV, shame to waste it on just me.”

James scowled deeply and sighed.

Jon laughed, “Boy hates football, weird boy that his is – all ponsy posh sport with James, isn’t it baby?” while he wrote in the same spilled beer slop, “Act. Know you can’t.”

“Maybe,” Robbie said, “I’ll see.”

“I’m in the same place baby. Wood Farm. Remember?”

James nodded.

Jon drained his pint, before standing and pulling James to his feet and pulling him into an almighty, bone crushing, bear hug as James protested,

“Uncle Jon...” but Jon began to whisper urgently in his ear,

“I’m here every night after work, near enough. Just for a quick pint. Between five and six usually. I’ll keep and eye out. Ear too. All my contacts deal in cannabis, not one I know directly would touch hard stuff, but I’ll put the feelers out for you. Okay? I guess your phone is unobtainable and I’m not leaving any message for you at nick – you don’t need a ‘mate’ like me to sully your career sweetie. So just keep in vague touch here, yeah?”

James nodded and huffed, “Thanks,” into his uncle’s neck as he hugged back, tightly. Robbie watched anxiously.

“Well?” Robbie said, when Jon had left. “What was that about?”

The pub was now filling up and a raucous group of women came to sit at the nest table. James sighed and rolled his eyes meaningfully,

“Family is complicated. Please, let’s not... I know you like footie but...” and with that James swung up his legs and put them across Robbie’s lap, pulling himself half onto Robbie’s lap and snuggled into him, whispering into his ear how Jon was an occasional small time dealer and habitual user of cannabis and had offered to do a little sleuthing for them.

“Oi!” yelled one of the new customers from the bar, “You’re putting me off my pint! Piss off to The Castle or The Jolly Farmers for all that, yeah?”

“Or just get a room,” added his mate. “Jeez!”

Robbie pushed James off him roughly and stood,

“Time to go love.”

 

*

 

Osgood pulled off her boots, towelled her dripping hair, and curled up onto her hotel bed, opening her laptop, and contacted Kate.

“Osgood?” Kate said immediately, glaring into her web cam. She was holding a biscuit and a pot of tea was in front of her. “I wasn’t expecting a report until the end of the week.”

“I have news. In fact, I have a suspect.”

Kate sat up and, placing her biscuit on the saucer, leaned forward towards the camera. “That is good news.”

“Do you have anything on file regarding a Time Lady called The Rani?”

“No, nothing,” Kate frowned; she hated to admit her father may have over-looked something, or that she and her team had failed to notice anything. “Just Romana, who travelled with him, and the Counsellor, late of the parish of Oxford City, where you are. Have you found her?”

“No, but I’ve met a companion of Him.”

“Who?”

“Melanie Bush.”

“Ah, yes, she had an interview. Has she been helpful? You didn’t give to much away?”

Osgood proceeded to explain all about her accidental meeting with Melanie Bush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Rusty Bicycle is real. Whether drug dealers and users drink there I know not and cast no accusations on the real pub!
> 
> Also, last of the already written chapters posted. the rest is in five plotted chapters, but RL will get in the way, and as one plotted chapter turned into three and another into four I cannot promise how many chapters are left to go!


	25. Week 8, Gangsters and Hippies

Robbie swore and turned over as the alarm went, pulling the pillow over his head. James hit the off button and propped himself up by an elbow, yawning, running his hand over his newly razored blond stubble. It was so worrying, how they were going native. It was eight thirty in the morning, very late by their own standards, but incredibly early for their legends opinions and lifestyles. He sat up, stretching his arms and yawned again, before kicking off his share of the quilt, careful not to remove Robbie’s half, it was colder in the mornings now. He gingerly raised himself upright to stand and then headed of to the bathroom.

It was ten days now he’d been doing this, and yes, it brought some regular money on top of the tiny amount coming in from UNIT, disguised as Isaacs – his! – ESA, but as for leads or connections, none whatsoever. Robbie was having more luck making connections and was getting mouthy in the right circles about any day now he was going to deal again, but the more he circled inwards towards bigger and bigger supplier and got nearer to organised crime and gangs, the more elusive the supply of the contaminated heroin had became. Although he had been faking a growing cliental, disappearing to London every few days to fake buying white and brown to sell. But at a pretended frustratingly little profit margin. 

Until today, that was. Later today he was hoping to be inducted into a large-scale operation of manufacture and supply. If they didn’t have connections to the contamination, Robbie had told James he suspected Kate would indulge them no longer and move UNIT troops into Oxford and declare it an emergency situation.

Meanwhile, Hooper was yet to track down Francesca Floyd either; she had not been seen at her digs, college, or The Door now for some days. As Michalmas Term was just one week away, this was very worrying, as she was a very committed and diligent student. Her family lived abroad, her father worked in Stockholm and her sister was studying in Paris; they had heard nothing from her, she had not been to Europe to visit her family at all. They had fallen out over her engagement to Peter Kettering, so this was not unusual, the lack of contact; sometimes they never had even an email or text from her in months.

As for James’ new job, and its potential drug connections, it was a little stereotypical and presumptive to link vegetarian, organic, and green lifestyles with drug use, particularly these days. Besides, if there was a stereotype, it involved mild cannabis use rather than anything stronger. Something that was central to Isaacs, and indeed, his boss didn’t object to the odd spliff in the garden. But he would, he felt, be horrified at anything stronger.

The problem with Isaacs the pothead was it was Hathaway’s head that got wasted.

However, chasing the cut heroin up the illegal supply chain had fallen more and more on Lewis’ shoulders, now his persona had been taken on by the house’s various connections, which surprisingly had turned out to be more from the least expected source, Angie. At least James had got all the info relevant to Kingfisher to Hooper to hand on up. Meanwhile, Francesca needed to be taken in for questioning and she was known to frequent the cafe, plus the job added credulity to their legends. Spud particularly seemed quite pleased and proud that he had his own job, independent of Robbie.

When James returned, washed, shaved, and dressed in baggy jeans and a hoody, to their squalid bedsit, although he tried to keep it clean and free of damp, the wet early Autumn weather was not helping, Lewis was asleep again, stretched out on his back, mouth open in his newly horrible bearded face, snoring. James prodded him with his toe,

“Don’t forget you’ve got that meeting set up with the suppliers at last. Don’t blow it Robbie,” James said as Robbie opened one eye with a sound that may have contained a swear word or two if he’d been more coherent.

“Yeah yeah!” Robbie turned his back on James and pulled his pillow tightly about his ears. “Not for ages, it’s early. Leave me be!”

These days they stayed in their legends almost one hundred percent of the time. It was easier, alarmingly easier, these days. It carried less risk. James sometimes wondered if James Hathaway was buried too deep. As he had buried so many incarnations of himself on top of each other, he hoped he could retrieve the right one when the time came to come out.

 

*

 

The Porter waved DC Alec Hooper through the Lodge, pointing at a doorway across the quad,

“Through there, across the second quad, staircase 4. Should be in Sir.”

Hooper nodded his thanks and put up his umbrella to cross the soggy quad in the driving rain, the lawns glistening tuffs of too long grass, the endless rain obviously preventing any pristine upkeep. Mind you, with the start of the year a few days away, and all the language school students and summer conferences and courses over, perhaps the gardeners and ground men were on holiday?

The second quad was considerably more crowded, with a film production company crew, actors, and equipment all under cover, cowering out of the torrential down pour. They all watched him pass with mild interest, bored with hanging around, trying not to stress about falling too far behind. He smiled awkwardly at the young actress who was playing the lead, the only one he recognised. She barely noticed him.

However, Hooper was used to this. No one noticed him really. He climbed the medieval staircase and banged on the door.

“Go away! I’m working!”

“It’s Alec Hooper, Sebastian.”

“Oh,” the student replied flatly. “It’s unlocked.”

Hooper pushed the door open. Papers were strewn everywhere, two blackboards covered with mysterious squiggles and numbers, a half-eaten, mouldy, pizza half buried in the notebooks and loose leaves of foolscap. Sebastian himself sat in the middle of the floor, hugging his knees, his holey black jumper he always seemed to wear pulled over both knees and hands. Sebastian had obviously been running his hands through his hair; it stood in greasy spikes in all directions. He was rocking slightly.

Hooper sat down in front of the boy, careful not to be too close, not to make eye contact or touch him,

“Hello Sebastian. I had wondered if you had any more ideas?”

Sebastian looked up. He looked haunted and exhausted, with sallow skin and huge bags, with what looked like old tear tracks down his face.

“No constable, I’m sorry. Nor have I heard from Francesca.”

“Have you thought any more about where she could have gone. Or why?”

“I think it might have been their anniversary. Two years since their engagement. Five years since they started seeing each other.”

“Who Sebastian? Who’s her fiancé?”

“Peter. My brother. My twin. He’s dead.”

“Ah. I didn’t realise. That must be why you are so close.”

“I don’t know where she is!” Sebastian stood up and started pacing, pulling at his hair. “Nor do I know how anything resembling my work is turning up on the streets. I don’t know anything! Go away detective! Just leave me alone!”

Hooper nodded sadly and left, closing the door behind him silently. Poor sod. He was sure the boy was innocent. As perhaps was his friend, his almost sister-in-law, obviously. Perhaps she had taken herself of on holiday, wanting to be alone with her grief? Had anyone checked her debit or credit cards for a straightforward holiday booking, he wondered, or had they all jumped to more sinister conclusions? He’d get Ngoti onto it right away.

As he crossed the quad, the rain had stopped and a scene was being set up, a man in sub fusc lay on the sopping wet grass while a young make-up artist completed her gory touches to his head. Hooper smiled to himself, didn’t at all look like a real smashed head, not in the least. But he held off his phone call to Ngoti until he left college, least prying media ears hear.

 

*

 

Hooper had had quite a lot of dealings with the young Sebastian Kettering over the past couple of weeks, firstly bringing him in for questioning following his latest contact with Lewis, and then on Professor Osgood’s recommendation after she had run some more toxicology and tests and re-examined his thesis. Something about these tests had caused bad blood between Dr Hobson and Professor Osgood, but Hooper had no idea what. At briefings you could now cut the atmosphere with a knife. Osgood had a colleague around now, a young Irish lad called McGillop. Sweet enough, although he reminded him of his daughter’s latest crush – focused and single minded, although less arrogant and rude.

Sebastian had to have either been a very good actor or genuine, as his face, when during the second round of questioning, Osgood laid out on the table some of the SOC photos of victims and described their manner of their death, before breaking down their basic toxicology, had been horrified and shocked.

“Heroin does not kill! Not like that! It gently shuts down the organs, heart, the lungs, the other organs; it is the same as a person slowly dying of morphine before they die of cancer. A larger dose than usually used will just simply shut everything down like a natural death, going to sleep as it were! Heart failure, yes, violent heart attack and seizures... how? Not the heroin. Can’t be? But what? Not anything I’m working with, certainly not! Is that what you think...?” he had said when he found his voice, which was why, despite Innocent’s seriously annoyed face, Osgood had given him all the scientifically stuff. They could have been talking a foreign language as far as Hooper and the Chief Super could understand, but it had made sense to Sebastian and he had crumbled,

“But... it can’t be... not possible...! I’m not... not...” and he had begun to have a panic attack that led to the kind of classic autistic meltdown of moaning and rocking and head banging they tell you about in training courses and the station’s medico had to sedate him.

He had confirmed Hobson and Osgood’s hypothesis that it was possibly designed to cure addiction, but he was decades away, although it looked to be based on his own formulae, it had been tweaked. Besides, he had had such a rate of death of cure in his first lot of mice he hadn’t been granted funding for any more. It was not – might never be – safe for people! It was years away before it was safe to test on more mice!

But the poor boy had not faked his own shock and horror; he did not have an artificial bone in his body. Hooper should know, he did an immediate refresher on TVP’s autism awareness training and then got a copy of Sebastian’s IEP, CAMHS, and LEA reports going back to the boy’s sixth birthday. Hooper was going to be the liaison with him during the rest of the investigation, after all. And that boy did not lie.

 

*

Robbie huddled in his new black leather jacket; it was pissing it down again. And it was cold now, so cold. Unseasonably so for early October. He was told to wait in the Cowley Centre car park. He’d parked his blue van up on the top level and walked down and waited opposite the small service doors to the shops in the precinct. It was dark and the ground greasy with rain and spilled oil. He idly watched a rainbow form on the floor. They were late. Very late. A car roared up, a small red Corsa with illegal tinted windows, a fusion music of rap and Bangla blaring out.

The car pulled up in front of him and the window slid down. The music got louder and the smell of weed wafted out.

“You Robbie?” asked the boy, his pupils shot to pieces, as huge as saucers.

Every highly trained instinct in him screamed to nick him there and then.

“You Wazir?”

“Yeah man. We met yesterday. Adeel and Waheed introduced us, yeah?”

“I can’t see you in that?”

The boy opened the door and stumbled out. He was thin, wan, a patch of his brown skin darker and puckered, a scar of some kind – fire? Acid? He wore a brown leather jacket over skinny jeans, so skinny they could have been airbrushed. His hair he’d backcombed and gelled, to crazy spikes. He might have been small, he may have been stoned, but Robbie knew this boy wouldn’t be easy to take down. He fingered the semi-automatic Hooper had provided for him, snug in his jacket pocket. He was the same boy he’d met the day before in the Malik’s back room in Stanley Road.

“Yeah, it’s you.”

“Get in.”

“You’re taking me to the lads who moved on the Roschenkovs territory, right?”

“Yeah yeah. No worries.”

Robbie climbed in the passenger seat, as he did so, he made sure the butt of the gun poked out of his leather jacket.

“You carrying?”

“’Course. You don’t fuck me around, either, lad. You understand me?”

“Sure sure!” He revved the car and reversed at about 50 miles an hour back out of the service entrance to the centre, without looking in his mirror.

Men rapped about bitches and whores in American English and Hindi, while a woman harmonized beautifully, to a backbeat of bangla drums on the car sound system. The car vibrated from the woofers in the boot. Robbie hoped the journey wasn’t long; it was giving him a bloody headache. Not the world music of James, by any stretch, worse that bloody Wagner at full tilt in the Jag. What would his boss make of him and his undercover legend, he wondered?

 

*

 

James had spent all morning in the kitchen, making the day’s soup, bake, and main dish – red lentil and tomato, red lentil and veg lasagne, and tofu and aubergine curry, yellow split pea daal with coconut rice. Every recipe was written down and been served since the cafe opened in 1997, and one of each was offered every day, plus four salads every day. Ingredients were provided most of the year by locals who grew their stuff on allotments and an organic cooperative. Consequently, the chef of the day had to match ingredients to the book of recipes. The Bible, his boss had told him, until she caught his uncomfortable look. They survived by a loyal cliental and locals popping in, as green, organic, no air miles, vegetarianism and free from and hipster places became the norm and trendy and new places started up and down the Cowley Road nearer the city centre. Every morning mums and toddlers arrived after some club or other and the place was noisy with squealing children. Sometimes home educators met too, and there were older children. One young girl sat reading, a girl of about eleven, every Monday and Thursday, and he and she began a stilted friendship discussing children’s literature. As soon as the brunches and morning coffee rushes died away, James had half an hour to clear the breakfast things and lay out the soup, daal, main, salads, and also the cakes and the home-baked, wholemeal, bread rolls. Another employee made the cakes in the evenings.

Today a young man James knew he recognised came in for breakfast, ordering porridge and tea, and sat in the corner next to the cutlery and water station, under the current artwork there, a huge red and orange sunset with a foetus inside. He sat reading Tolkein and occasionally ordering more tea.

James was tired, a little stoned, busy, and worried about Robbie, currently hopefully on his way to the top of the food chain where the altered, cut, heroin originated from, so it took him a while to recognise the dark haired, scruffy young man as Sebastian Kettering, soon to be Dr. Kettering, boy genius and inventor of whatever it was, according to Hobson and Osgood, so Hooper told them during the last contact. That last meeting, the terrifying one where Robbie was given a gun and a ton of money. Inventor Kettering maybe, but entirely innocent of it ending up in the drugs circulating in East Oxford and beyond, according to Hooper, but apparently Osgood and Innocent agreed with him. They weren’t so sure about his friend, his brother’s old girlfriend, the girl James had seen weeks ago, whom worked for the Porch and had access to addicts through her work with the charity. In which case, his hypothesis had been correct, and Robbie was on a wild goose chase, a dangerous wild goose chase.

*

They pulled up outside a detached house with its own driveway and large gardens at the top of Rose Hill. Black Mercs and BMWs were parked up across the gravel and long, ill kept lawns. A lean, young, African, man was leading against a shed, hidden from the road and drive by the hedges. He unashamedly carried a gun and spoke into an earpiece mike. This was big.

His yellow eyes watched them narrowly as they got out of the car and approached the front door. Robbie heard him suck his teeth. This was big, and entirely under Thames Valley’s radar.

The door opened before they got there, and two more skinny boys approached them. They had knives, or more machetes. Both were also black.

“Wazir. Boss says beat it,” one said with a London-Nigerian accent, the older and larger one. The other was a boy, fourteen if a day, and much paler, coffee mocha cream and pretty, watching the older all the while with his eyes, as if training.

“What man? I was promised enough brown, white, and weed, for a week. I’ve gotta keep my customers sweet man.”

“Yeah, you’ll get it. Delivered to you, so fuck off. Boss don’t want you on the premises. Big boss is coming.”

“I’m gone man, I’m going,” Wazir didn’t quite run, but he got back in his car with alarming alacrity.

“Who’s this big boss then?” Robbie asked, but he was pushed in the door and it slammed with a back behind them. A white man approached them down the chequered tiling of the hallway. He had ginger hair, razored close, and wore a tight-fitting white tee shirt and skinny pale jeans. He wasn’t armed.

“Frisk him,” he said currently, with a local accent, maybe more Bucks that Oxford, faster, more London, less glotteral stops, London but with a rural drawl.

“No need lads,” Robbie said, pulling his gun from his pocket, hanging it loosely from his fingers by the trigger. “Safety’s off.” He flipped it over and handed it to one of the ‘doormen’.

“And the rest,” ginger said.

“Who is this big boss, then?” Robbie asked again, while he pulled a flick-knife from the back pocket of his jeans, a nice traditional touch, something a gangster of his age would still carry. “I want that back, scalped my first with that as a lad, barely out of short trousers. Had it since I was a nipper. Love that knife, I do.”

One of the ‘guards’, the young one, the ‘apprentice’, maybe, flicked it open, it was longer than he expected, and he flinched. Everyone laughed. He scowled, and then cracked a grin, showing a cute gap between his teeth. Robbie’s heart bled for the boy. He deserved a better chance.

“You’ll get it back,” ginger said. “Follow me then.”

“You going to tell me who the boss is, then?”

“When and if you’re ready, he’ll tell you.”

He followed him though the hallway and a large living room, where an ipod was plugged into a six-foot boom box and music, this time American rap, blared out. Three black men were ranged about sofas, their arms draped over skinny, young, white girls wearing little. They all narrowed their eyes at him and watched him and ginger cross and exit into another hallway, this one dark and brown, last decorated in 1954, but the look of the peeling, chipped, brown wallpaper and lino, and then up some wooden stairs. They walked across a landing, past a lab with what looked like a centrifuge where an Asian man in a white lab coat was watching a flask come to the boil. He stopped and watched them pass. Then they passed a room where two women, older, harder, not window dressing, were cutting and measuring both bundles of brown sludgy heroin and finely refined white powered versions. They too watched him pass.

Robbie got chills all the way down his spine; everyone he had seen here had blown pupils and spoke in a chilling monotone, spoke like a bad novel. He had his suspicions that the eyes were yellow and blown from hypnosis rather than drugs. He’d seen it once before, with girls, with Morse and the Counsellor. Alien hypnosis. He told himself he was imagining it.

But he wasn’t, was he? It was why he’d called in UNIT in the first place. Alien drugs, alien experimentation. Despite what Hooper said about Kettering.

 

*

 

Sebastian didn’t leave. He drank endless cups of tea and worked his way through re-reading the Lord of the Rings. At least, James assumed he was re-reading it, a clever autistic Oxford science student; it would be odd if he hadn’t already read it. James’ shift finished at two, but he got himself a large helping of the curries and rice, with a side order of a half plate of salad – potato and mixed beans and leaves – and sat down at the long table near the counter and the toilet door where he could see Sebastian but Sebastian couldn’t see him easily without peering around the corner.

At half past two the door opened, the cafe had been empty for some time except for Sebastian and James, apart from a woman curled up in the front window sofa with her laptop, her wheelchair parked behind the easy chair, her soup half eaten, three empty cups of what had been soya hot chocolate in front of her. She was plugged into music in her laptop while she wrote, the charger cable of both laptop and powered wheelchair snaked over the other sofa and plugged in behind the piano. She glanced up as the new arrival came in stumbling over the chair’s anti-tips and grimaced an apology, before she got back to her writing.

The young woman, with her long, fairy blonde hair, and long dress, covered with an oversized chunky cardigan in red fisherman’s knit, continued walking up to the counter, her stumble merely adding graceful momentum as her Doc Martins smacked the floor and her hand hit a table. She righted herself to look up at Sebastian who had stood, meaning to help her.

“I’m fine,” she said. The she flung her arms around Sebastian and burst into tears, “Oh Sebastian!” she wailed. “I’m so scared!”

Sebastian looked awkward, just stood there, his hands clenching and unclenching, unable to know what to do.

“Promise me you haven’t told him where I am. Or the college. Or the police. Are they really looking for me?”

One of Sebastian’s hands hovered awkwardly behind her back, as if to pat it. He shook his head. “I’ve told no-one. Yet. The police just need your help.”

James watched them, glancing at the writer, but she was back-spacing and muttering furiously, and paying no attention. James sank into his seat and picked up the book he was reading, a second hand book on Muhammed by former nun Karen Armstrong he’d picked up next door in the Inner Bookshop the day before. Francesca had seen him at the Convent, and he was quite memorable, with his height, pale blond hair, and sticky out ears, even if he was dressed differently, his hair was different, and he hoped he managed to project a different person’s ‘essence’ or ‘aura’, soul, in other words, if that were possible.

“I’ve been such a fool, Seb. Is it, true, what you said, about your research? Really?”

Sebastian’s hands finally came to rest gently on her shoulders. “Quiet, not here. But come on, let’s have some lunch, there is some salad left. Look, and soup. All the vegan stuff. Let me get you hot chocolate,” he spoke placatingly, trying to comfort, speaking to her as if she were a frightened animal.

Francesca pulled herself together and stepped back and straightened her shoulders. “Thank you. Chocolate would be nice. And some soup. It’s brassic out there. Sorry Seb, I know you don’t like touching or do tears.”

“Sometimes, I wish I could cry as easily as some people, feel the same as other people,” he said sadly.

“Oh Seb. I’ve been so scared.”

“Sit down. I’ll order the food.” He glared at James, who put his book down and stuck his head in the kitchen and called to the woman who worked the afternoons. She was up to her arms in flour, so he made the soya hot chocolate and served the soup and last roll of the day. He offered to stay, and remained behind the counter, perfect view, easy to eavesdrop, and completely invisible until someone wanted to order. 

*

 

Ginger was called Lucas, and he led Robbie finally up a third flight of stairs, more of a glorified ladder, to meet the boss. He found himself standing in the doorway of a large, circular room, an annex, or rather, Victorian follow of a round tower at the side of the house. It was lined with books and curved sofas, a coffee table laden with a proper silver tea service, a pot ot tea, milk, sugar, lemon, and a three tire plate of sandwiches and cake. A man sat in shadow, in a high wing backed chair, dressed in an expensive suit, wearing black leather gloves on his hands, his fingers steepled together. He regarded Robbie with deep green eyes lit from the skylight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/ I am so so so sorry. Sorry sorry sorry! I had flu back in March 2015 which seemed to give me CFS on top of my already neurological severe ME/CFS and I had a series of seizures throughout the year. The problem is Poisoned Minds is a vast, complex plot, with many ocs, housemates, suspects, victims families, UNIT and TVP officers, and I'm severely lacking in 'spoons' and understanding to re-read the whole thing and make notes or to remember precisely where I was going. I know who did it, but how L&H and UNIT figure it all out and how it is revealed to you, the reader, I don't want it to go wrong... I've been stressed and thought I could wing it, as my notes gave me a headache and left me very confused and panicky, so I'm not sure it I can finish it.And I'm only 4 chapters from the end too!!!!  
> I asked for help a few weeks ago on livejournal, but no takers  
> http://inspector-lewis.livejournal.com/662441.html  
> so if you can help message me here, there or on dreamwidth where I am asparagus_mama. Thank you
> 
> 2/ Magic Cafe is entirely real. it has no connection with drug dealing or anything else illegal. it just sells lovely food. the Inner Bookshop is now out of business
> 
> 3/ This was begun as a story for my daughter in 2010 and started being written in 2013 and last updated in 2015. in the meantime things have moved on. I called my fictional operation to stop child trafficking of children in care in Oxford Kingfisher to distinguish from the genuine Thames Valley Police operation, Bullfinch. Time moves on and there is now the multi-agency task force that TVP set up to ensure it never happens again, called Kingfisher. Whoops!  
> Plus, the other day my research scientist friend shared an article on Facebook about a Pharma company researching into a vaccine to prevent heroin addiction. Life imitating art. I invented that ;)


	26. The Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very heavy on UNIT crossover, but very essential to plot. Lewis, Hathaway and Hobson are all in this chapter though.

Meanwhile, in her office at the Tower of London, Kate re-read her Thames Valley Wolf’s message again while she sipped her third cup of tea after she had hacked into both the Oxford transport and the Cowley Centre security CCTV cameras and watched Lewis’ progress until she lost him. 

She had replied earlier with as short good luck and assurance nothing would happen regarding UNIT action. However she had called in Colonel Mace for a brief precise and automatically added him to all messages and attachments. He and his battalion would no doubt, very soon, be working with Thames Valley Police CID and Drug Squad, along with the uniform boys. That was if Lewis brought her gold. She hoped so. Or maybe another foot up the rung if these criminals were humans and being played unaware.

receiving...  
de-encrypting...  
received.  
message to From Kate Stewart CC G1. from Robbie Lewis TVW6.  
ccs Osgood G3,CSA, Innocent CS, TVP, Hooper TVW17, Mace Col T2

About to find the Big Gang through my new little boy gangsta contacts and suppliers. Have set up to meet with the gangsters who distribute the smack along with other drugs to all the small time dealers I’ve found who have had supply cut or al least dead and missing cliental. I want/hope to make a deal with their bosses. I understand they have come in from Wycombe to fill in the gap left by the Roschenkovs. Not sure if they are also Russian. Or Asian. Or maybe Somali? Even home grown? Conflicting intel. Getting different info from different contacts. Perhaps a mix? Played up my Newcastle connection to Roschenkovs as bait and about to get my bite. I’ve been told the ‘Boss’ wants to see me and offer me a cut. Meeting contact at Cowley Centre at 2pm today. No idea where I’m going then. Wish me luck.

Will need several more thou in my legend’s account to withdraw by 1pm today for insurance. Have semi-auto you provided via Hooper.

Will appraise after meet.

TAKE NO ACTION UNTIL WE SPEAK. I know you will CCTV track me. This needs a proper police response to start, not UNIT all guns blazing til we’re sure.

End of road. Hopefully. Don’t pre-empt Kate. Trusting you.

 

Kate sighed and put down her tea cup before closing down the message and flipped back on the CCTV on the Rose Hill Junction on the Iffley Road in South East Oxford, which was as far as she had been able to track Lewis in the small Corsa. The car and its young driver had returned to pass the junction some time ago. Of Lewis there had been no sign.

 

*

 

James watched as Sebastian Kettering and Francesca Floyd left and then went into the kitchen to tell his boss he was off now. She waved to him from the mixer, as it slowly blended cooked beetroot, flour, eggs, sugar and cocoa powder in what was currently a disgusting looking batter. It blended very noisily and she gave him a thumbs up and a grin. James took that to be he was dismissed from his impromptu, voluntary, overtime to watch the two students. He hadn’t, sadly, been able to hear much. But he gathered Sebastian wanted Francesca to go to the police and turn herself in, which made him respect Hooper and Osgood’s assessment that the boy was innocent, despite it seemingly being his research that was the chemical and viral markers in the cut substance in the lethal heroin.

Once outside the cafe, he rushed back to the Henley Street house, but seeing no sign of the blue transit van, headed straight for the Cowley Road and its bus stops, rather than going in, hoping he wasn’t seen by any of the other residents. He would get a bus up to Cowley Centre; Robbie had said he would park on the top floor of the Cowley Centre 1960s multi-story car park. James needed to access the secure UNIT laptop as soon as possible to get Unit to message Hooper regarding Ms Floyd.

 

*

 

Osgood and McGillop sat opposite Hobson in her office. McGillop couldn’t speak for Osgood, but he felt super uncomfortable and more than a little guilty, like a schoolboy in front of his headmistress. There was something deeply scary about Dr Hobson in a state of righteous anger, a little too much violence bubbling under the surface, perhaps. He idly wondered if she cut up dead bodies for a living to stop her making her own.

Eventually she ran out of steam. She had been shouting at them for a full seven minutes without apparently taking a breath. He glanced at Osgood, sitting next to him, and admired her calm poker face. He tried to look confused and insulted rather than guilty, as he knew he couldn’t keep that impassive look of Osgood.

He tried to reassure himself they had nothing to feel guilty about. It was his idea, after all, with a little prompting from Kate, perhaps. Yes, it was unethical; yes it was it was disrespectful and harmful to the deceased and the families. He got that fully. In fact he felt ashamed, he really did. But the bodies were no longer using their brains; they were absolutely no use to the dead whatsoever, were they? And the families would not have any idea they were missing unless Dr Hobson took it upon herself to tell them. He rather suspected she would, unless Osgood could stop her...

“Don’t you agree McGillop?” Osgood said, looking at him. Hobson was also glaring at him. What had he done? Gone off in a daydream again. He really should focus. Alas, if his research wasn’t in front of him, he found focusing all too difficult. He had no idea what had been said, but nodding enthusiastically at Osgood, smiling slightly. Hobson scowled at him deeply and spoke, but McGillop looked up at the patterns on the ceiling and tried to distract himself from the fact that they had behaved illegally. Would the Doctor approve, he asked himself. An off-asked standard question among UNIT scientific advisors.

Egyptians had got rid of the brains of their deceased as so much waste matter. The dissections and toxicology that would be performed at the Tower would be invaluable to isolating and understanding further the chemical and viral markers, and also what they were doing to individual brains and why the victims had died. He hoped. Otherwise it was just entirely unethical.

McGillop heard Hobson sigh deeply, as if in defeat, and tried to focus again. It was so hard as he was tired.

“What did you discover then?” Hobson asked Osgood. “And don’t insult me anymore by suggesting it wasn’t you.”

“Your OSA and non disclosure and security levels only take you so far, Laura,” Osgood said gently. “Officially, UNIT respected the decision regarding the victims bodies. I cannot comment beyond that, I’ve already said so.”

McGillop had grudgingly to admit to himself, that for all her bumbling and her forgetting her inhaler and her Doctor-hero worship and cosplay, Osgood was so good. It’s why she was Chief and he was second. Jo to her Doctor, he supposed. He liked the look of Jo; he looked at her pictures on the wall often. 

Right now, Osgood looked as if butter wouldn’t melt. And yet, at 2am that morning, she had awoken him in his room in the Randolph, told him to dress entirely in black, and driven them to the John Radcliffe Hospitals in his hire car, and then broken into the path labs and morgue and extracted seven brains; a cross section of the victims by age, gender, ethnicity and type of user and put them in organ transport boxes and driven them to Thornhill Park and Ride on the A40 to meet the young UNIT soldier waiting with his bike. He took off immediately for London and the Tower without so much as a hello/goodbye, just a cheeky grin. The bike was the time used to ferry donated organs for surgery and he had left under blue lights.

Meanwhile, Osgood was telling Laura Hobson that of course she could not confirm or deny any findings, as there were no findings yet to share. McGillop imagined Malcolm Tucker up to his arms in grey matter even as Osgood and Hobson glared at each other across the table.

Hobson stood, arms folded, and Osgood blinked. “Get out of my office. I trusted you. Robbie trusted you!” she snapped.

“I’m sorry... “ McGillop began, before standing and following Osgood out into the corridor.

“You are such a wuss,” Osgood said, but with a smile.

 

*

 

Kate looked up from her daydream, staring at the same Oxford junction on the laptop screen, no longer seeing anything, as her PA opened her office door and showed her reluctant guest in.

She quickly shut down the wall screens and closed her laptop before standing and smiling warmly,

“Miss Brown. Thank you so much for agreeing to come back for this chat. There’s a little matter you may be able to help with. Would you like some tea?”

Peri stared at the UNIT commander. Her time on Krontep had made her hard and suspicious, and she struggled with trust. Having been ‘invited’ to the Tower once before, soon after the Doctor, the new Doctor, and Chris, had dropped her back in the right time. She had considered the 1980s, and then calculated how long she had been missing, how much she had aged, and told him to drop her in 2009. Only two years out and the wrong side of the Atlantic; not actually that bad for the Doctor, all things considered. She struggled enough with trust and forgiveness with the Doctor. Everyone else was probably collateral damage. She was trying, after all, the Time Lords had told him she was dead...

“Coffee,” she snapped, sitting down opposite the blonde woman and regarding her with narrowed eyes. “And tell me what this is all about?”

Kate nodded to her PA for coffee and a fresh pot of tea and sat down. “In short,” she said, “The Rani. She is missing from our files. What can you tell us about her?”

Peri started at Kate, unblinking. Kate’s smile slipped, somewhat. “Tell me why first,” Peri demanded.

 

*

 

Francesca followed Sebastian up the stairs of his college residence to his rooms. At his insistence, they had got a taxi home. He unlocked the door and then ushered her in. It was his usual smelly mess, no, worst perhaps, than she had ever seen it.

“What’s happened to your Scout?” he asked, failing to keep her shock.

“I wouldn’t let her in.” He stopped still where he was and began to pick at the holes in his perennial black comfort jumper and stared blankly into space.

“Why?” she sat gingerly on the edge of his bed.

“I’m being watched. Not the police, MI5 or 6 or something. C19 even.” He turned to look at her as she made a scoffing noise. “The police really, really need to talk to you. You’re not in any trouble. I promise. It’s just about...”

Francesca could guess what and who it was about, and also knew that she was going to be in a lot of trouble. For all his cleverness, Seb was such a fool at times. “Would you like me to clean up and tidy your room?” she asked brightly. “I won’t touch a thing to do with your thesis, I promise. Just let me get rid of the mouldy food and change this frowsty bed.” She smiled even more brightly, changing the subject, distracting him, getting up and opening the windows. “Let’s get these rooms smelling nice and germ free.” She knew for certain whom he was about to mention, and she couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t!

“Then will you talk?” Sebastian demanded urgently, hugging himself tightly, still standing in the middle of his room.

“Uh-huh,” Francesca nodded, making a non-committal noise, bending down to pick up the first of the disintegrating, mouldy, pizza boxes.

 

*

 

Peri sipped her coffee, it really was a good cup, and read through all the biochemical toxicology test and post-mortem reports. She was a biologist, a naturalist, plants were really her thing, but her time on Krontep was not wasted and she was streets ahead of early twenty-first century Earth sciences in so many ways, so she could understand most of what she read, although many formulae took some decoding. But it was big; she could see that, the death toll alone was staggering.

Finally she looked up. Kate looked nervous, as if wondering whether she should have trusted her.

“Why?” Peri asked.

“Why what?” Kate asked, mouth around a dunked biscuit.

“Why would the Rani be conducting experiments on human heroin addicts?” she paused, then answered her own question. “Unless her alien subjects on Miasimia Goria are now addicted to heroin or something similar. One of her experiments that went spectacularly wrong and she left the whole planet unable to sleep and aggressive. So she started to extract melatonin and other brain chemicals from human males in lawless, violent, times throughout Earth history. The Doctor and I met her during the Luddite Rebellion in the 1820s in north England. It was distressing, what she’d done to those men. They meant no more than the cow does to you as you tuck into yours steak.”

“I’m a vegetarian,” Kate said dryly.

Peri looked up from the laptop Kate had given her and smiled tightly, “Me too. But you get my point. She’s a cold, arrogant being, obsessed only by her experiments and her planet and nothing else. The Doctor said she had always been cold-blooded and obsessed, even when they were children. Or whatever young Time Lords are.”

“So, is she a suspect?”

“Do you have any leads that indicate alien involvement, or her in particular, or at least, a female humanoid alien? Because, otherwise, I think it unlikely.”

“We have a supposition, less than a hypotheses, that the speed of development from the added toxin indicates alien, or at least, future tech.”

“The twenty-first century is the fastest developing century in human history. Faster than the nineteenth or twentieth, then things slow down, even stagnate, in the twenty-second, as far as I could see, going backwards and forwards, but stable, in the millennia ahead. Well, as far as I could see, from my travels. This could just be human greed, testing a drug underhand for a quick buck. Couldn’t it?” Peri said thoughtfully.

“It could be human and contemporary,” Kate agreed. “We have a young man, a gifted student, and it is his research that is the basis for the additive. But this research is accelerated and somehow released without his knowledge.” Kate paced her office as she spoke.

“And he is not a suspect?” Peri asked.

“No. We’re almost one hundred percent sure he is innocent. And horrified at what is being done to people, with his research. He didn’t anticipate it ready for controlled human trials for at least a decade.”

“Okay.”

“But his friend... maybe? At she’s a possibility at least as someone who maybe is distributing it. We cannot trace how it gets from his lab, gets tinkered with, and gets released. She’s a young sociology student who volunteers with a charity helping addicts and their families.”

“Not the Rani in disguise then?”

“No. Definitely human. Or at least, her background and family all check out. We’ve yet to interview her.”

“Any more female suspects?”

Kate grinned briefly. “Not unless you count the nuns.”

Peri raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“Forget it,” Kate said, embarrassed. “No. None. Time Lords can’t swap gender, can they?”

“Not as far as I know,” Peri replied. “The Doctor is always full of surprises, but...” Peri shrugged. “Why?”

“We have our eye on Kettering’s supervisor. A Biochemical Professor and Fellow from Oxford, supposedly an Irish orphan. Here,” Kate leaned over and clicked on the mouse.

“I don’t recognise him, but the way he’s dressed, the beard, he could so easily be an incarnation of...?”

“I know. But why? Not exactly his MO at all.”


	27. The Reveal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title says it all - we find out who is behind the cutting, and spreading, of the agent. But not why.

Robbie walked further into the room at ginger’s gesture of sweeping his arm out towards the centre of the room and the round coffee table and plush purple velvet curved sofa behind the sumptuous looking tea tray. The man’s face was entirely in shadow, only the black leather gloves and the purple velvet sleeve and sharp white cuff with silver cuff links was visible, even his eyes were now no longer staring coldly from the dark around him. Lewis suspected the glowing eyes might have merely been a trick of the light. There was a darker shadow behind the high wingbacked chair where the gloved man sat, his black leather fingers still steepled as if in contemplation

“Thanks Lucas babe,” a voice said, a Wycombe accent with shades of West Indian, but not the man in the wingback chair. Another man stood behind him, hidden by the dark shadows. He stepped forward. A young man, black, with short, tight, corn rolls across his long head. He was all sharp angles and skinny, like Hathaway, Robbie caught himself thinking. He was dressed in a charcoal grey suit and lilac shirt, no tie, surfer beads at his throat. He cracked a wide grin; his teeth obviously whitened and reflected the only light. “Mr Matthews. Been hearing all sorts about you man. Sit down.”

Lewis looked at the sofa behind him, curving around one quarter of the round tower room. “Why not?” he said, and sat. “You know me, who are you?”

“Winston Mitchells, but here I’m known as the Boss.”

Robbie let out a breath. “The lad who moved in on the Roschenkovs. I tried that up in Newcastle, only got out with my life. How did you manage that man? Serious respect lad.”

“Would you like some tea?” Mitchells said, stepping forward and sitting on the other sofa, which began its circumference of the room next to the wingback chair hiding the other man.

“Wouldn’t say no. Ta. Milk and two sugars. This is all very civilised.”

“Isn’t it? And why not? We’re just two civilized businessmen about to make a deal, perhaps a merger. Maybe you can take the business back north with our support. Would you like that? I understand you’ve been building up clients fast in the last two weeks, but you want a bigger cut.”

“I’m going to London at the moment, getting crap stuff, shifting it fast. Want a bigger piece of the action, like I did up north. So yeah, if I could go back home, that’ll be fantastic. Seriously though. Drugs. Girls. Enforcing. I was the Man to go to once. Then the filth wipe it all out when Yuri got stupid. It’s take serious support to get me back up there and not have me arrested straight off.”

“I hear you tried to take Yuri out,” the other man said, his voice soft and RP, with an edge that said he was used to getting exactly what he wanted. Top drawer posh.

“And you are?” demanded Lewis, turning to glare into the shadow, trying to find his eyes again.

The man leaned forward into the light. Robbie struggled with his reaction, to remain neutral and not recognise him, because he was sure he had seen that face before, early on in the investigation. He hoped his longer, greased back hair and beard, as well as the very different clothes, meant that this man wouldn’t recognise him. If he was who he thought he was.

“Tell him Mitch,” the man said.

 

*

 

Hooper wearily trailed up the staircase again, to once again knock on Sebastian’s door. It was raining again, although the sun was shining behind it. As he had glanced out of a narrow medieval window on his way up he had glimpsed a rainbow shining over the Cherwell and Maudlin Bridge. He knocked again, more loudly.

“Sebastian,” he called. “It’s me. Alec Hooper.”

Sebastian opened the door, his eyes wild, his forehead bruised, scratched on his face. “Constable Hooper,” he said flatly.

“Steady boy,” Hooper took a step forward and grabbed hold of Sebastian’s arm. “Who did this to you?”

“I did. I’ve been stupid. Stupid stupid stupid.” He screwed his eyes tight shut and started to punch himself in the side of his head.

“Hey hey hey!” Hooper said, grabbing Sebastian’s wrist. He put his other arm around the boy’s shoulder’s, and ignoring the flinch, held him tight, and led him inside and sat them on the bed. “You rock now boy, but don’t hurt yourself. We’ll talk when you’re through okay.”

Hooper let go of the wrist and gave him a tight squeeze before he let go of his shoulders. The boy curled up and rocked, putting his hands over his face, but didn’t attempt to hurt himself any more. While the boy was lost in his meltdown, Hooper looked around the room. It looked like a bomb had gone off. Not his usual mess and dirt. No. In fact, it looked as if someone had finally cleaned the room, and the sheets and quilt and pillow covers, Hooper noted, were also newly washed. There was no sign of the usual bric a brac of pizza boxes and crisps and sweet wrappers, or dirty plates from the dining hall. Instead, paper and cardboard from files and notebooks were shredded everywhere, the phone Sebastian never answered looked as if it had been stood on, and the laptop lay on the floor by the window, lying as if it had been thrown, the screen cracked and its case half hanging off its hinge.

Hooper wanted to get up and start to tidy and sort, look for any evidence of what triggered the meltdown. But he knew that might trigger the boy further. He knew not only from his Thames Valley Police courses on autism, but also as a parent, that waiting silently while making sure the young person did not hurt themselves, was all he could do. His daughter Molly used to regularly trash her room and scratch her face when she had been a teenager. She used to get confused, and cry and rock, as a child too. She also, still to this day, had inappropriate obsessions with unobtainable men. If the courses had taught him one thing, it was that his troubled and very clever daughter was ASD. He’d shared his discovery with his wife and wondered whether to tell Molly. Her indoors had just smiled and hugged him,

“Oh Alec, don’t you think Molly didn’t self diagnose herself years ago.”

Of course she did.

Sebastian, who had been diagnosed and three and had decent support as both autistic and gifted from seven, had stopped rocking and had sat up straight, and was wiping his eyes roughly with the palms of his hands.

“I’m so so sorry Constable Hooper.”

“No, no worries boy. Okay now, yeah?” Hooper bumped his shoulder next to Sebastian’s in sympathy. “Feel up to telling me what started it off?”

Sebastian shook his head, his whole body shuddering with deep emotion as he sighed heavily.

“Okay. Shall I tell you why I’m here?”

Sebastian nodded.

“I heard you were seen with Francesca Floyd earlier today. I came to see if she was still here. We really do need to see her.”

“I know.” Sebastian spoke in a slow, slurred, monotone, as if still struggling to communicate. Hooper waited, afraid the boy would shutdown on him too. “I tried to persuade her so much. When she left she said she was going to talk to you.”

“Well, she never made it to us. When did she leave?”

“About an hour ago.”

Hooper pulled his phone out and dialled Innocent immediately. As Innocent answered, he heard Sebastian mutter,

“It’s my tutor...”

and looked down at him sharply.

 

*

“This is my main man, the Big Boss,” Mitch said. “I run this operation, but he’s been increasing our yield and output and got us a big piece of the Roschenkov business. You asked how. He’s how, man, he’s how.” He sounded so proud.

“So, you’re this Big Boss they were talking about, eh?” Robbie asked, smiling, trying to keep as Matthews as the man leaned forward further into the light.

“Master. I prefer the Master,” Professor Keller said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hands up who had guessed this chapters ago! When? Which chapter? Such a relief to have it out in the open :)


	28. The Raid

James woke up to Robbie shouting up the stairs as he came into the house, racing up them two at a time, Spud and Chaz yelling after him.

“James. James babe! Pack. I’ve got us a decent flat!”

“What?” Spud was yelling, his biker boots thudding on the stairs behind Robbie’s footsteps. “You can’t just...”

The door was flung open and Robbie came in, looking slightly feverish and crazy. “I’m in. It’s back to the good life love. Maybe even back to Newcastle in a bit. Ah, what are you doing sleeping?”

James struggled to sit up and open his eyes; he’d only be asleep half an hour or so, after making it back in the rush hour from Cowley Centre on crowded buses.

“What?” he slurred, still struggling to regain consciousness and understanding.

“I’m in,” Robbie repeated, staring at him meaningfully. “Boss likes me. Big boss was there. They think they can get me into old Roschenkov turf back home in a bit. In the meantime, I’m one of the lieutenants. Come on James, you don’t have to work at that bloody hippie place, you can ... oh man, you should see the place I’ve got us. Furnished, up by the ring road, overlooks the Thames.”

“You can’t just move out. You owe us rent,” Spud yelled from the doorway, behind Robbie. Robbie turned onto him and grinned magnanimously.

“No worries lad, I’ll give you three months in lieu of notice, plus the month we owe, that’ll do you?”

Spud nodded, “More than do.” He turned to James. “James, you’re welcome to stay, we’ll wait for you to sort out housing benefit love,” he said gently, looking meaningfully at him across the room. James felt torn, Spud was kind, he was telling Isaacs that he didn’t need to stay with a criminal, that he could get his life on track. But at the same time, he wasn’t Isaacs and he was getting his own life back, he guessed. Unless they were moving on undercover, in which case he needed to go where Lewis went, unless ordered differently.

“I’ll, um, pack,” he said, sitting up. “Give me a minute.”

“James...?” Spud began.

“Sorry Spud. I get what you’re saying. But I love him. Where he goes, I go.” He looked at Robbie with meaning, Robbie grinned back. James hoped he realised he really meant it, as he wasn’t sure he could say such a thing as himself.

 

*

 

sending...  
de-encrypting...  
sent.  
message from Trap One, Kate Stewart, Commander of EU UNIT  
message reads  
for attention of Col Mace, Captain Price, Professor Osgood, Doctor McGillop, CS Jean Innocent, DC Hooper, DI Robbie Lewis, DS James Hathaway  
All agency meeting at 1900 prompt at Kidlington Thames Valley Police HQ. We have tracked the source of the contamination of the heroin. Need to act fast.  
Code red: Master  
Repeat. Code red: MASTER  
Jean – bring in Drugs, uniform and ninjas as appropriate.  
Robbie – yes, it was months ago and you look very different, but never underestimate a Time Lord. We need to act fast.

 

*

It took twice as long to load up the van than when they had unloaded it two months ago. Both men had acquired possessions as their undercover selves and couldn’t leave them behind without arousing suspicion. Plus, of course, Robbie had snuck back to his own flat on the third day to get some more useful possessions, the kettle and mugs, toaster and plates, and sheets and a rug. James wanted to order it properly, pack it neatly, but Robbie carried things down and just threw them in the back and insisted James do the same. He seemed to be in a hurry.

“Nay lad, we’re not going far, you’ve all the time to sort it the other end,” he said.

All the while James was going up and down the stairs Angie stood in the doorway of her bedroom, hugging her bear, and looking sorrowfully at him. James so wanted to keep in touch, like he kept promising as Isaacs, but he had no idea how. He also felt slightly guilty about leaving the Magic Cafe in the lurch, since he had taken on maternity cover for six months. He felt conflicted and torn. Spud too, kept trying to persuade him to stay, telling him he had friends and a job, he didn’t need Robbie anymore. If James had really been Isaacs, then, he, Hathaway, would have wanted that for Isaacs too. But it seemed Isaacs was too much like his mother. That was, Hathaway’s mother. This was confusing. Who was he? He didn’t even know if they were going out of undercover or just moving. He resolved at least to keep his job if he was remaining Isaacs as Lewis, or rather Matthews, infiltrated the gang.

With a hug from Spud and Angie, both genuine tight ones, and a handshake from Chaz, and an exchange of cash between Spud and Robbie, and James telling his now ex housemates to use up his food and promising to keep in touch, at least with Angie, they were in the van and accelerating away, weaving through side roads and pulling out into the traffic on the Iffley Road and speeding down it towards Magdalen Bridge and the High. It was now 18:51, James had to report at Robbie’s snapped demand as he screeched the van out onto the main road in front of a bus.

“Fuck! Shit!” he cried.

“What? What is going on?” James asked. “Are we still undercover?”

“No. We’re done. Sitrep then, sergeant. Okay, Matthews is in, that’s not a lie, the offer to set him up in Newcastle, isn’t either. Not unless they are lying to me as a double bluff. Kate thinks it’s likely he will have remembered and recognised me, even though it’s over three months ago since I met him at the bio-chem labs and I look and sound a fair bit different. In fact, will I get my own voice back, I’ve not been this broad since I were a nipper, before I went to grammar.”

“You went to a grammar school?” James snorted. “That’s funny Sir.” It was a slight dig and a snort more out of relief, an attempt to catch back the right James Hathaway. He was so relieved and worried and confused. He didn’t know how to feel.

“Aye lad, I’m not daft. Were compulsory, 11+, in my day. You don’t need to call me Sir though.”

“I think I do. Else I won’t know who I am.”

Robbie glanced at him as they approached the lights and junction with Longwall Street. He sighed and kept the car going up the bus only section of the High. He was unlikely to be pulled over in the few minutes it would take him to get to the station. Any cameras catching him would be dealt with easily. Otherwise it was a long, long detour. “Aye lad,” he agreed sadly.

“Sitrep, you said,” James said, sitting up more straight in his seat.

“It’s Keller. Professor Keller, that clever wee lad’s supervisor and tutor. And also apparently an alien, known to UNIT of old. Osgood could never get close to him to read his vitals so we had no idea. He was ruled out as a suspect as it really isn’t his MO. We still have no idea why. If we catch him we can ask... doubt it though. But for us, it’ll be a haul. Whole gang over from Wycombe, small fry ’til Keller – or the Master as he calls himself – took them under his wing. He’s got labs up there where he’s adding Kettering’s formulae plus whatever improvements he’s made. I have absolutely no idea why. He likes domination and conquest, used to attract other aliens and invite them to invade Earth for the piece of the action. No idea how it interests him to experiment on the addict population of Oxford. Unless it’s just funny.”

“The Master, you say? As in the Counsellor?”

“Or the Doctor. Aye. Very like. Here we are, jump out and get the desk sergeant to open the car gates and get us uniform to blue lights us up to Kidlington, and let them know we’ll be late.”

 

*

 

James felt wrong, odd, like he’d shown up to a party in fancy dress when no one else was dressed up, as he and Robbie were ushered through the corridors of the Thames Valley HQ, dressed as Isaacs in baggy jeans and a hoody, striding next to Robbie in his black shirt and black jeans, studded belt, brown leather jacket, a gun still in its pocket, his face a full beard, his longer hair greased straight back from his forehead.

The young woman officer tapped lightly on the door of the conference room and called, “Ma’am,” before pushing it open and walking quickly away.

Robbie grinned at James and said, “After you, sergeant, they can’t start the party without us.” James glanced at him and Robbie winked. James hesitated so Robbie touched his elbow. “It’s okay pet,” he whispered, “follow me, and keep quiet unless asked a direct question.”

Robbie strode into the conference room, his shoes sinking into the plush carpet. Around the long table sat Hooper, Peterson, a uniformed inspector that Robbie recognised from Cowley Road station, a young woman with short hair who had Drugs written all over her, all seated on one side, on the other was Osgood and the young, attractive McGillop, an older man in a British army uniform and insignia of a colonel, a blond military woman, very likely his second in command, seated next to him. Innocent and Kate sat side by side at the head, Innocent scowling as if she wanted to lead.

And what the hell was Peterson doing there? Did he have clearance? He’d never hear the end of it from bloody action man now.

Innocent stood up. “Inspector Lewis, Sergeant Hathaway, it is good to see you both, well and alive. Please sit at the end.”

They sat opposite Kate and Innocent at the end of the table. The meeting began properly, with Robbie repeating and adding to the report he had send to Kate as seen as he had returned to his van.

“Yes, I do think it likely he did recognise you,” Kate said again after Robbie had explained how he doubted he had been.

“I’ve a meeting set up at ten tomorrow, I thought we were going to do a Sting, wire me and James and wait for my signal. Normal procedure isn’t it?”

“Ordinarily, yes,” said the Drugs woman, an Inspector Samantha Green. “We’ll get the whole lot, the manufacturers, the refiners, the dealers, the armed gang, but...”

“I agree,” Peterson said, “We need evidence and for that we need the set up.”

“You’ll get the evidence anyway,” Lewis said. “I saw labs and packing and felt certain there was more. Mitchells runs it like a proper business, I’ve no doubt his laptop and tablet and phone are all packed with his suppliers and dealers.”

“We need the Master, or else he will just set up elsewhere. My UNIT US contact has gone down, and he was tracing similar research from a Thascales, and he’s gone missing too. We need to act immediately,” Kate concluded. “How soon can we get everything set up and in place in Rose Hill? If you Thames Valley plods can’t move fast then cooperation ends now and we go in, and your drugs collars be damned!”

Peterson rose to his feet, but Innocent got there first. “Now just a minute, we never said...”

“Tell us what you need, and you’ll have it, within the hour,” Inspector Ahmed finished for her.

 

*

 

By 2115 everything was moving into place. Police vans with several members of the Drugs Squad and uniform, along with Peterson and his pack of ninjas, or armed officers, were sat in streets and cul de sacs one over from the road the house was on at the very edge of Oxford. UNIT’s control lorry was in place the other side of the grassland the house’s gardens led onto, parked up on the hard shoulder of the A4142 near where the Thames meandered underneath. Scrub and woodland lay between them and the back of the house. Colonel Mace put two soldiers in each Thames Valley Police van and the men and women from police and army eyed each other nervously. Obviously the uniform and Drugs, nor the armed officers, had no brief as to why the army was on a drugs raid, and a story was put out that the gang was involved funding terrorism. Police’s Eye in the Sky and two UNIT choppers took to the air and began circling Oxford, waiting for the shout.

Lewis walked up to the house, followed by James. They were both wired. He turned to James at the gates. 

“Wait here, love. I’ll get you clearance. They are hot on their guards, stricter than my own outfit,” he said as Matthews to Isaacs. James nodded and leant on the wall, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. 

“Good luck Sir,” James muttered under his breath as Lewis began to walk into the property, keeping an eye out for the armed watch he’d seen that afternoon.

Everything seemed still and quiet. The lights were on in the house, and he could hear music from the downstairs chill out room, but even so, it seemed too still and calm. A crow shrieked and took flight as he approached the doorway on the gravel drive, his feet making an uncomfortably loud crunch with each footstep. Robbie glanced to his left, to the grass and bushes where the crow had taken flight, where last time the young African had kept watch, leaning against the shed.

First he saw the gun, then a foot. Lewis’ gaze travelled up the still leg to the torso, blooded and open, a large hole ripped through the chest, and finally to the shocked, very dead, face. The crow had been at his eye.

Lewis stifled a gasp at the horror and covered his mouth with his hand while he stepped back on the gravel drive.

He knocked on the door, but it fell open at his touch. Lying on the black and white tiles of the porch and entranceway were the doorman and his young trainee. Lewis knelt down and touched the man, the Nigerian.

Warm.

“What the hell...?” Lewis muttered to himself, in shock.

“What?” Kate instantly said in his ear.

“Later!” Lewis turned and closed the young boy’s eyes, the pretty young one who had jumped at his flick knife only hours before. “Oh lad,” he whispered, “you never stood a chance.”

A door creaked. Lewis got to his feet in an instance, spinning around. He quietly paced towards the sound. As he passed the large room with the music he saw six dead bodies, three IC3 males, three IC1 females, gunshots.

“Bodies?” Kate said in his ear. “Has he bailed?”

Lewis then realised he had spoken aloud, in police language, to keep himself focused.

“So far, nine of the gang, all dead.”

The back door banged. Lewis set off through the house at a run.

“Go go go!” he yelled as he crossed a second corridor and another large room, almost tripping on more bodies, and through the large Victorian kitchen, a woman and man dead at the table.

The kitchen door was swinging, as if it had just been opened, and Lewis ran through it and out into the back gardens, where he subconsciously registered surprise at the well laid out kitchen gardens, herb gardens, and lawns, and down to the fencing.

He could see Keller in the dusk now, leap and vault the high wooden fence like a cat, landing softly on the other side neatly and silently on his feet and continue to run.

“IC7 suspect heading for ring road and Thames!” Lewis yelled into his hidden throat mike.

 

*

 

James had followed his boss as soon as he realised all Lewis was finding were dead bodies and open doors. He took the route Lewis had described to him, and found himself as far as the landing of the labs and packing rooms. All the rooms were full of bodies, all gunshot wounds, chest or head, neat and quick. Many held guns in their dead hands, one a room having apparently shot themselves. He reported what he was seeing to those coming in behind him. He could hear the choppers over head. Without thinking he picked up something from a sofa in one of the anterooms next to one of the large labs. He heard Lewis’ voice in his ear, shout,

“Night sun! Get me the bloody night sun!”

*

Lewis ran even though it felt like his heart would burst. He really needed to get back in shape; two months undercover had made him soft. Long grass rubbed against his calves as he pushed through, branches of the occasional tree smacked into his face. Keller was making ground on him, a dark blue shadow ahead of him in the twilight. It was growing darker by the second.

“Night sun! Get me the bloody night sun!” he yelled.

He could hear the Eye in the Sky, a roar and shudder of blades, now, not one, but two or three helicopters were closing in above him. Suddenly the Police’s chopper’s light shone down, shining as bright as day.

 

*

 

James could hear the police and soldiers enter the house and move about, room to room, systematically making sure it was all clear and safe. Only then did he realise coming in alone and unarmed without a stab vest was an incredibly foolish thing to do. He stopped a moment and hugged himself, centring himself, as he looked up the last flight of stairs, into the tower room that Robbie had told him about, where he had met Winston Mitchells and Professor Emil Keller aka, the Boss and Big Boss; Mitch and the Master.

He shuddered and climbed the stairs. He could hear the sounds of a repeated click and a man’s voice as he climbed. He clutched the baseball bat he had picked up in one of the rooms downstairs and held it out in front of him.

 

*

 

Lewis caught up with his suspect, who had stopped in front of a large oak tree and was fumbling with his pockets, a key already in his hand.

“Keller!” Lewis called, standing on the balls of his feet, squaring up as if for a fight.

“Ah, Detective Inspector Lewis. Or is it Mr. Matthews. Can’t say I like the new persona. Does your sergeant appreciate the beard? No stranger to beards, though, are we?”

“Emil Keller, the Master, I arrest you on...”

“Come come Inspector, let’s not be silly. I have no interest in your primitive tribal justice.”

Lewis looked to see that the Master had pulled out a long black cylinder. It looked like a sex toy but he rather suspected it was a gun. He stared at it and made sure he didn’t look in those now shining yellow-green eyes.

“Give me three reasons why I shouldn’t kill you?”

Lewis smiled. Here, he suspected, he had an advantage over many a UNIT operative. “One,” he said, “I ran into a desiccated space ship about to explode to extract the Counsellor from the mainframe and carry her out before it blew. Two, I spent a week with her, nursing her through a difficult regeneration. Third, I’m her friend. Do you know who the Counsellor is?” He took a deep breath and waited. The Master was a psychopath, an evil genius, an alien renegade, but every man has weaknesses.

The Master lowered his weapon as he put the key in the door. “Three out of three, I suspect,” the Master said smoothly as the tree opened up, light spilling from the console room within. He stepped inside and the door began to close.

“Just tell me why!” Lewis yelled to the closing door. “Why the cut drug? Why the deaths?”

But the door has already closed. Just an old, large, oak tree remained in front of Lewis.

 

*

James walked into the circular room. A young man in a grey suit and lilac shirt, Mitchells he suspected, stood in front of a wingback chair and held a gun against his head, repeatedly pulling the trigger of the empty chamber.

“I must obey. I must obey,” he repeated over and over again.

“One survivor. The tower room. IC3 male. I think he’s under some form of hypnosis,” James reported, his voice shaking, as he stepped forward and took the gun from the young man’s hand. He continued to mime shooting himself in the head with his naked, empty, hand.

“On our way,” Kate replied. “Osgood. McGillop. See to him.”

 

*

 

The ‘tree’ dematerialised. The Master was gone. Lewis stood there, and looked up. The choppers were still circling, the night sun still glaring on him. No doubt they had recorded his interchange and would want to know what was said and why he was still alive. To be honest, he had no idea himself and that was what he would say.

“We lost him, he’s left Earth,” Lewis said, wondering who was hearing him, how much of a cover up would need to be done with plod, drugs, and ninjas. He didn’t care. The Master was gone, his gang dead, the altered killer off the streets.

And bizarrely, some people, twice as many to the dead, cured of heroin addiction for life. Was that a good thing, he asked himself? He turned to walk back to the house, the night sun went off and he heard the helicopters bank and leave him be, leaving him alone in the dark to stumble across the scrub and back to the house.

As he walked, tripping over clumps of thistles and uneven earth, slipping on mud, he heard James’ shaky voice in his ear,

“One survivor. The tower room. IC3 male. I think he’s under some form of hypnosis.”

Ah. A hypnotic autosuggestion to wipe out his minions in case of discovery, and the poor sod had run out of bullets. He wondered if the lad’s mind was recoverable. He also asked himself, had he caused it, blundering in and arrogantly assuming he wouldn’t be recognised.

**Author's Note:**

> Can't promise how long it will take me to finish posting this. Usual reasons, daughter and health, etc... originally invented and told in 2010 but two chapters typed, one more written, half in note form, rest in my and my daughter's head... I will try to get it posted as quick as I can. In the meantime, feedback on whether you want me to finish this would be appreciated :)


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